After failing, on one occasion, to make herself understood, Guadalupe said, with some vexation in her manner:
“We wish brother was home come; brother speak ver better Englis.”
“Where is he?” I inquired.
“In the ceety—Vera Cruz.”
“Ha! and when did you expect him?”
“Thees day—to-night—he home come.”
“Yes,” added the Señora Joaquina, in Spanish: “he went to the city to spend a few days with a friend; but he was to return to-day, and we are looking for him to arrive in the evening.”
“But how is he to get out?” cried the major, in his coarse, rough manner.
“How?—why, Señor?” asked the ladies in a breath, turning deadly pale.
“Why, he can’t pass the pickets, ma’am,” answered the major.