“’Pon the honour of a cavallero! the most impudent thing I ever witnessed in all my life, even in republican Paris! A fellow,—a demned trader in hides and tasajo—in short, a butcher of demned buffaloes to aspire—Parbleu!”
Echevarria, though talking Spanish, always swore in French. It was more polite.
“Most insolent—intolerable!” cried several voices.
“I don’t think the lady seemed over angry withal,” remarked a blunt young fellow, who sat near the lower end of the table.
A chorus of voices expressed dissent from this opinion. Roblado’s was the loudest.
“Don Ramon Diaz,” said he, addressing himself to the young fellow, “you certainly could not have observed very carefully on that occasion. I who was beside the lady know that she was filled with disgust—” (this was a lie, and Roblado knew it), “and her father—”
“Oh, her father, yes!” cried Don Ramon, laughing. “Any one could see that he was angry—that was natural enough. Ha! ha!”
“But who is the fellow?” inquired one.
“A splendid rider,” replied Don Ramon. “The Comandante will admit that.” And the free speaker looked at Vizcarra with a smile of intelligence. The latter frowned at the observation.
“You lost a good sum, did you not?” inquired the cura of Vizcarra.