A complete change became visible in the major’s bearing. The point of his sabre dropped slowly to the ground, and the blue and white spots began to array themselves afresh on his great red cheeks.
“Don’t you think, Captain,” said he, “we’ve gone far enough into the cursed country? There’s no mules in it—I can certify there’s not—not a single mule. Had we not better return to camp?”
Before I could reply, an object appeared that drew our attention, and heightened the mosaic upon the major’s cheeks.
A man, strangely attired, was seen running down the slope towards the spot where we were standing.
“Guerillas, by Jove!” exclaimed Clayley, in a voice of feigned terror; and he pointed to the scarlet sash which was twisted around the man’s waist.
The major looked round for some object where he might shelter himself in case of a skirmish. He was sidling behind a high point of the parapet, when the stranger rushed forward, and, throwing both arms about his neck, poured forth a perfect cataract of Spanish, in which the word gracias (thanks) was of frequent occurrence.
“What does the man mean with his grashes?” exclaimed the major, struggling to free himself from the Mexican.
But the latter did not hear him, for his eyes at that moment rested upon my dripping habiliments; and dropping the major, he transferred his embrace and gracias to me.
“Señor Capitan,” he said, still speaking in Spanish, and hugging me like a bear, “accept my thanks. Ah, sir! you have saved my children; how can I show you my gratitude?”
Here followed a multitude of those complimentary expressions peculiar to the language of Cervantes, which ended by his offering me his house and all it contained.