“Good day, master,” said he, with a sidelong glance full of triumphant malice at the anxiety which was imprinted on my face.
“Tell me,” exclaimed I, roughly, “have you seen any one about here?”
“No one except yourself, señor mio,” answered he, calmly.
“Did you hear no voice?” continued I.
The slave remained silent, as though seeking for an evasive reply.
My passion burst forth. “Quick, quick!” I exclaimed. “Answer me quickly, wretch! did you hear a voice?”
He fixed his eyes boldly upon mine; they were small and round, and gleamed like those of a wild cat.
“What do you mean by a voice, master? There are voices everywhere—the voice of the birds, the voice of the stream, the voice of the wind in the trees——”
I shook him roughly. “Miserable buffoon,” I cried, “cease your quibbling, or you shall hear another voice from the barrel of my rifle. Answer at once; did you hear a man singing a Spanish song?”
“Yes, señor,” answered he, calmly. “Listen, and I will tell you all about it. I was walking on the outskirts of the wood listening to what the silver bells of my gorra (cap) were telling me, when the wind brought to my ears some Spanish words, the first language that I heard when my age could have been counted by months, and my mother carried me slung at her back in a hammock of red and yellow wool. I love the language, it recalls to me the time when I was little without being a dwarf, a little child, and not a buffoon; and so I listened to the song.”