“Stone-thunder! it’s solid delf, I say.”
“Try it with your bayonet, Jim.”
Crick—crick—crick—crinell! reached my ears. Turning round, I saw that one of the men had commenced breaking off the japanned work of the parapet with his bayonet.
“Stop that!” I shouted to the man.
The remark of Chane that followed, although uttered sotto voce, I could distinctly hear. It was sufficiently amusing.
“The captain don’t want yez to destroy what’ll be his own some day, when he marries one of thim young Dons. Here comes the owld one, and, by the powers! he’s got a big paper; he’s goin’ to make over the property!”
Laughing, I looked round, and saw that the Don was returning, sure enough. He hurried up, holding out a large sheet of parchment.
“Well, Señor, what’s this?” I inquired.
“No soy Mexicano—soy Español!” (I am no Mexican—I am a Spaniard), said he, with the expression of a true hidalgo.
Casting my eye carelessly over the document, I perceived that it was a safeguard from the Spanish consul at Vera Cruz, certifying that the bearer, Don Cosmé Rosales, was a native of Spain.