I bowed in acknowledgment of his courtesy, apologising for being so ill prepared to receive his “hug”, as I observed that my saturated vestments had wet the old fellow to the skin.
I had now time to examine the stranger, who was a tall, thin, sallow old gentleman, with a face at once Spanish and intelligent. His hair was white and short, while a moustache, somewhat grizzled, shaded his lips. Jet-black brows projected over a pair of keen and sparkling eyes. His dress was a roundabout of the finest white linen, with waistcoat and pantaloons of the same material—the latter fastened round the waist by a scarf of bright red silk. Shoes of green morocco covered his small feet, while a broad Guayaquil hat shaded his face from the sun.
Though his costume was transatlantic—speaking in reference to Old Spain—there was that in his air and manner that bespoke him a true hidalgo.
After a moment’s observation I proceeded, in my best Spanish, to express my regret for the fright which the young ladies—his daughters, I presumed—had suffered.
The Mexican looked at me with a slight appearance of surprise.
“Why, Señor Capitan,” said he, “your accent!—you are a foreigner?”
“A foreigner! To Mexico, did you mean?”
“Yes, Señor. Is it not so?”
“Oh! of course,” answered I, smiling, and somewhat puzzled in turn.
“And how long have you been in the army, Señor Capitan?”