Potaje and the maestro laughed at this counsel. When he went to raise his glass, Plumitas was embarrassed by his carbine, which he held between his knees.
"Say, man, put that down," said the picador. "Must thou keep on guard even when thou goest on a visit?"
The bandit grew serious. It was all right where it was; it was his custom. The rifle accompanied him always, even when he slept. And this allusion to the weapon, which was like an additional member, ever united to his body, turned him grave again. He looked in all directions with a nervous restlessness. Anxiety showed in his face the habit of living alert, of trusting nobody, with no other reliance than his own strength, having a presentiment of danger near him every hour.
A herder walked through the kitchen in the direction of the door.
"Where's that man going?"
As he said this he rose in his seat, drawing the rifle towards his breast with his knees.
He was bound for a large field nearby where the farm laborers were working. Plumitas settled himself peacefully again.
"Listen, Señor Juan. I have come for the pleasure of seeing you and because I know you are a gentleman, incapable of breathing a whisper against me. Besides, you must have heard talk of Plumitas. 'Tis not easy to catch him and whoever does it shall pay for it."
The picador intervened before his maestro could speak.
"Plumitas, don't be silly. Here thou art among comrades while thou dost behave and carry thyself decently."