Lantejas, now elevated in spite of himself to a point of haughty grandeur, replied to this menace only with a superb smile.
Clara being sent for, the moment after appeared within the room.
“Who is this man, dog of a negro?” interrogated the fierce brigand.
This time too punctual in executing the orders of his captain, the black displayed his ivory teeth in a smile of significant intelligence. “Don Lucas Alacuesta, of course!” he replied.
A cry of gratification issued from the lips of the bandit.
“But there is another name which I also bear, is there not?” inquired Don Cornelio, without losing countenance.
“Don Cornelio Lantejas,” added Clara.
“The proofs—the proofs!” cried the guerillero, pacing rapidly backward and forward, like a caged tiger who sees the spectators outside the bars of his prison without being able to devour them, “the proofs!—I must have them at once.”
At this moment confused and violent noises were heard outside the door, and rising above all the voice of Costal. The door was suddenly burst open, and the Indian rushed into the middle of the room, holding in one hand a bloody dagger, while the other was enveloped in a shapeless mass of what seemed to be cloth. The latter was serving him for a shield against the attack of several guerilleros, who were pressing him from behind.
Costal, on getting inside, turned abruptly and stood facing his adversaries.