“I cannot take your hand,” I said at length.
“And why?” he asked, in a mild tone.
“Why? It is red, red! Away, sir, away!”
He fixed his eyes upon me with a sorrowful look. There was not a spark of anger in them. He drew his hand within the folds of his manga, and uttering a deep sigh, turned and walked slowly out of the room.
Saint Vrain, who had wheeled round at the close of this scene, strode forward to the door, and stood looking after him. I could see the Mexican, from where I lay, as he crossed the quadrangular patio. He had shrugged himself closely in his manga, and was moving off in an attitude
that betokened the deepest dejection. In a moment he was out of sight, having passed through the saguan, and into the street.
“There is something truly mysterious about that man. Tell me, Saint Vrain—”
“Hush–sh! look yonder!” interrupted my friend, pointing through the open door.
I looked out into the moonlight. Three human forms were moving along the wall, towards the entrance of the patio. Their height, their peculiar attitudes, and the stealthy silence of their steps, convinced me they were Indians. The next moment they were lost under the dark shadows of the saguan.