The hour ended as all hours, good or bad, must end. Don Gil kept his eyes fixed upon the clock. Ah! it was five minutes past the hour now.
"If I find that he has delayed one minute beyond the necessary—possibly Escobeda has held him there, taken him prisoner—prisoner! In the nineteenth century! But an Escobeda is ready for anything; perhaps he has—" There was a step at the doorway.
"Entra!" shouted Don Gil, before one had the time to knock, and Rotiro entered. He had no time to say a word. He had not swung his arm round his head, nor settled the machete safely in the post of the door, before Don Gil said, impatiently:
"Well! well! What is it? Will the man never speak? Did you see the Señor Escobeda? Open that stupid head of yours, man! Say something—"
Rotiro was breathless. He set his gun in the corner with great deliberation. At first his words would not come; then he drew a quick breath and said:
"I saw the Seño' E'cobeda, Don Gil. He is a fine man, the Seño' E'cobeda. Oh! yes, he is a very fine man, the Seño'!"
"Ah!" said Don Gil, dryly, "did he send me a message, this very fine man?"
Rotiro thrust his hand into the perpendicular slit that did duty for a legitimate opening in his shirt. He was dripping with moisture. Great beads stood out upon his dark skin. He pulled the faded pink cotton from his wet body and brought to light a folded paper. This he handed to Don Gil. The paper was far from dry. Don Gil took the parcel. He broke the thread which secured it—the thread seemed much shorter than when he had knotted it earlier in the day—and discovered the letter which he sought. The letter was addressed to himself.
Don Gil opened this missive with little difficulty. The sticky property of the flap had been impaired by its contact with the damp surroundings. Don Gil read the note with a frown.
"Caramba hombre! Did you go up back of Troja for this?"