“Who are you?” he mechanically inquired.
“I?” said Costal. “Well, I am an Indian, as you see—a Zapoteque—formerly the tigrero of Don Matias de la Zanca; at present in the service of Don Mariano de Silva—to-morrow, who knows?”
“Don Matias de la Zanca!” echoed the student, interrupting him; “why, that is my uncle!”
“Oh!” said Costal, “your uncle! Well, Señor student, if you wish to go to his house I am sorry I cannot take you there, since it lies up among the hills, and could not be reached in a canoe. But perhaps you have a horse?”
“I had one; but the flood has carried him off, I suppose. No matter. I have good reasons for not regretting his loss.”
“Well,” rejoined Costal, “your best way will be to go with us to the Hacienda las Palmas. There you will get a steed that will carry you to the house of your uncle. But first,” added he, turning his eyes towards the tamarinds, “I must look after my carbine, which has been spilled out of the canoe. It’s too good a gun to be thrown away; and I can say that it don’t miss fire once in ten times. It should be yonder, where the brute capsized us; and with your permission, Señor student, I’ll just go in search of it. Ho, Clara! paddle us back under the hammock!”
Clara obeyed, though evidently with some reluctance. The hissing of the serpents still sounded ominously in his ears.
On arriving near the spot where the canoe had turned over, Costal stood up in the bow; and then raising his hands, and joining them above his head, he plunged once more under the water.
For a long time the spectators saw nothing of him; but the bubbles here and there rising to the surface, showed where he was engaged in searching for his incomparable carbine.
At length his head appeared above water, then his whole body. He held the gun tightly grasped in one of his hands, and making a few strokes towards the canoe he once more climbed aboard.