This sala was a large room, which, according to the practice in hot countries, was so arranged as to be continually kept cool by a current of air passing lengthwise through its whole extent. Fine Chinese mats covered the floor, while richly painted window-blinds prevented the rays of the sun from entering the apartment. The walls, whitened with stucco, were adorned with rare illuminated paintings set in gold frames, some leathern chairs called butacas, several side tables—upon one of which stood a silver brazero filled with red cinders of charcoal—these, with a fauteuil or two, and a mahogany couch of Anglo-American manufacture, completed the furniture of the apartment.
Upon a table of polished balsam-wood stood several porous jars containing water; beside them, on a large silver waiter, were confections of several kinds; while heaped upon other dishes, also of solid silver, were fruits both of the tropic and temperate climes—oranges, granadillas, limes, and pitayas, here brought together to tempt the appetite or assuage the thirst.
The appearance of these preparations denoted that Don Augustin expected company. As soon as they had entered within the sala, the monk, observing the well garnished tables, inquired if such was the case.
“Yes,” answered the haciendado, “Don Estevan de Arechiza has sent me word that he will arrive this evening with a somewhat numerous train, and I have taken measures to entertain a guest of such importance. But you say you wish to speak to me about some business—what is it, Friar José Maria?”
The two now sat down, each choosing an easy-chair, and while Don Augustin was lighting a cigar the monk commenced speaking as follows:
“I found the old woman seated upon a bank outside the door of her hut, whither she had dragged herself to look out for my arrival. ‘Bless you, good father!’ said she, ‘you have arrived in time to receive my last confession. But while you rest a little, I wish you to listen to what I am going to say to him whom I have always treated as my own child, and to whom I intend to leave a legacy of vengeance.’”
“What! holy father!” interrupted Don Augustin, “surely you did not permit this infraction of God’s law, who says, vengeance belongs only to Him?”
“Why not?” replied the monk. “In these deserts, where neither laws nor tribunals exist, every man must be his own avenger.”
With this strange apology for his conduct, the monk continued:
“I sat down and listened to what she had to say to this adopted son. It was this:—‘Your father was not killed by the Indians, as we were led to believe. It was his companion who murdered him—for the purpose of being the sole possessor of a secret, which I shall presently disclose—but to you only, Marcos.’