“Bid them welcome!” replied the haciendado, “and let them enter. Whether they are known to me or not, two guests more or less will be nothing here.”
A few seconds after, the two travellers had advanced to the foot of the stone stairway, where they stood awaiting the presence of the master of the house.
One of them was a man of about thirty years of age—whose open countenance and high forehead denoted courage, combined with intelligence. His figure presented an appearance of strength and vigorous activity, and he was somewhat elegantly dressed—though without any signs of foppery.
“Ah! is it you, Pedro Diaz?” cried Don Augustin, recognising him. “Are there any Indians to be exterminated, since I find you coming into these solitudes of ours?”
Pedro Diaz was, in truth, known as the most celebrated hater and hunter of Indians in the whole province—hence the strange salutation with which Don Augustin received him.
“Before answering you, Señor Don Augustin, permit me to introduce to you the king of gambusinos and prince of musicians, the Señor Don Diego Oroche, who scents a placer of gold as a hound would a deer, and who plays upon the mandolin as only he can play.”
The individual presented under the name of Oroche, solemnly saluted the haciendado.
It must have been a long time since the prince of gambusinos had found an opportunity to exercise the subtle talent of which his companion spoke—or else the cards had been of late unlucky—for his outward man presented an appearance that was scarcely more than comfortable.
In reaching his hand to his hat, it was not necessary for him to disarrange the folds of his cloak. It only required that he should choose one of the numerous rents that appeared in this garment, to pass through it his long-clawed fingers—whose length and thinness denoted him a player on the mandolin. In reality, he carried one of these instruments slung over his shoulders.
Don Augustin invited both Diaz and his singular companion to enter. When they were seated in the saloon Diaz began the conversation.