Lantejas, in reality—thanks to the bandits who had captured him—was almost naked: a torn shirt and drawers being all the clothing they had left him.
“Señor Captain,”—said he, addressing the jackal-like individual, and intending to account for the scantiness of his costume.
“Stop,” interrupted the other, “not captain. Call me Colonel of Colonels, if you please. It is a title which I have adopted, and no one shall deprive me of it.”
“Well then, Colonel of Colonels! if your people had not robbed me of my broad cloth cloak, my hat of Vicuña wool, and various other articles of clothing, you would not have seen me so lightly dressed. But it is not only that which grieves me. I have other serious complaints to make—”
“The devil!” exclaimed the Colonel of Colonels, without heeding the last remarks. “A broad cloth cloak and Vicuña hat, did you say? Two things of which I stand particularly in need. They must be recovered.”
“I have to complain of violence offered to my person,” continued Don Cornelio. “I am called Lantejas—Captain Lantejas. I serve the junta of Zitacuaro, under the orders of General Morelos; and I bear from him a commission, of which the proofs—”
A sudden thought interrupted the speech of Don Cornelio—a terrible thought, for it just now occurred to him that his despatches, his commission as captain, his letters of credence—in short, all the papers by which he could prove his identity—were in the pockets of the stolen cloak!
“Ho!” exclaimed the Colonel of Colonels, in a joyful tone, “you call yourself Lantejas, do you? I am delighted to hear it, and so will our captain be. It is the luckiest circumstance in the world for us, and for you, too, as you shall presently be convinced. Look here!”
The speaker raised the corner of a serape that was spread upon one of the tables standing near, and pointed to some objects lying underneath. Don Cornelio saw they were human heads.
There were three of them.