“I, captain,” answered a sharp squeaky voice.
Roblado evidently knew the voice, for he called out—
“Oh! it is you? Come in, then.”
The door opened, and a small dark man, of sharp weasel-like aspect, entered the room. He had a skulking shuffling gait, and, notwithstanding his soldier’s dress, his sabre and his spurs, the man looked mean. He spoke with a cringing accent, and saluted his officer with a cringing gesture. He was just the sort of person to be employed upon some equivocal service, and by such men as Vizcarra and Roblado; and in that way he had more than once served them. It was the soldier José.
“Well! what have you to say? Have you seen Vicenza?”
“I have, captain. Last night I met her out.”
“Any news?”
“I don’t know whether it may be news to the captain; but she has told me that it was the señorita who sent her home yesterday.”
“Her?”
“Yes, captain, the güera.”