“Yes; but my horse has given out. I am waiting till he recovers his wind.”
The stranger cast a glance towards the bay-brown of Don Rafael, and then threw himself out of his saddle. “Take hold of this,” he said, flinging his bridle to the officer. “Let me examine your horse.”
Raising the saddle-flap, he placed his hand underneath, to feel the pulsations of the lungs.
“All right yet,” he exclaimed, after a pause, apparently satisfied that the animal would recover.
Then stooping down, he took up a large stone, and began to rub it vigorously over the ribs and along the belly of the panting steed.
Don Rafael could not help gazing with curious interest on a man who, thus careless of his own life, was occupying himself so generously about the safety of another—that other, too, a perfect stranger!
The man was costumed as an arriero (muleteer). A species of tight-fitting blouse, of coarse greyish-coloured wool, striped black, covered the upper part of his body, over which, in front, hung a short leathern apron. Wide calzoneros of linen flapped about his legs. His feet were encased in buskins of brown goat-skin, while over his face fell the shadow of a broad-brimmed hat of coarse felt cloth.
He was a man of less than medium size; but with a sweet expression of features, from which his sunburnt complexion did not detract. Even at that terrible moment his countenance appeared calm and serene!
Don Rafael did not attempt to interrupt his proceedings, but stood regarding him with a feeling of deep gratitude.
For some moments the muleteer continued to use the stone. Then stopping the process, he placed his hand once more to feel the pulsation. This time he appeared less satisfied than before.