“Anything else to say, sergeant?”
“Nothing, colonel, except that the girl has a sweetheart—the same young fellow who bet so heavily against you at the fiesta.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Vizcarra, while a deep shadow crossed his forehead.
“He, indeed! I suspected that. Where does he live?”
“Not far above them, colonel. He is the owner of a rancho, and is reputed rich—that is for a ranchero.”
“Help yourself to a glass of Catalan, sergeant.”
The trooper stretched out his hand, laid hold of a bottle, and, having filled one of the glasses, bowed respectfully to the officers, and drank off the brandy at a draught. Seeing that he was not wanted further, he touched his shako and withdrew.
“So, camarado, you see it is right enough, so far as you are concerned.”
“And for you also!” replied Roblado.
“Not exactly.”