“A vial of poison, perhaps?”
“No; but something equally droll. A packet carefully put up, enclosing a small cambric handkerchief, sweetly scented with perfume, and inside this a tress of hair—a woman’s hair, long and beautiful, by my faith!”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Bocardo, in a significant tone; “and what have you done with it, Madame Arroyo?”
“What should I have done with it?” said the virago, with a disdainful toss of her head—“what but fling it back in the face of the messenger—the worthless thing. No doubt it is a love-token sent to this colonel of the devil.”
“The messenger took it back then?”
“Ah, indeed—with as much eagerness as if it had been a chain of gold.”
“So much the better,” said Bocardo, with a significant gesture. “I have an idea,” he continued, “if I am not mistaken—a superb idea! With this messenger and this love-token, we can give the Colonel Tres-Villas a rendezvous, where, instead of meeting his sweetheart, he may tumble into the middle of a score of our fellows, who may take him alive without the slightest difficulty. The thing’s as good as done. Only put me in communication with this messenger, and I’ll answer for the rest. What say you, Arroyo? What shall we do with the Colonel Tres-Villas?”
“Burn him over a slow fire—roast him alive!” responded the guerillero, with an expression of ferocious joy.
“But your wife will intercede for him?” ironically added Bocardo.
“Carrambo! Yes!” exclaimed the hag, “to burn him over the slow fire, and roast him alive—that I shall.”