Gustave Aimard
The Flying Horseman

"You are free, then. Tyro will pay you the sum I owe you. Are you satisfied?"

"We could not be more so," they both answered at once.

"I am glad that we leave one another good friends. But permit me to ask you one question. Have you ever had anything to complain of since you have been in my service?"

"Never!" they cried, tragically placing their hands on the place where there ought to have been a heart.

"Then perhaps, it is the smallness of the sum that I allow you which induces you to leave me. If I were to double the money?"

"We should be very sorry to do so, caballero, but we should refuse."

"If I were to triple it?" he pursued, looking them full in the face.

The bandits felt compelled to lower their eyes before the flashing look of the young man.

"We should refuse still, caballero," said they, turning away their heads.

"If I were to quadruple it?" resumed he, in the evident intention of pushing them to their last intrenchments.

They hesitated a moment; their eyes darted a momentary flash of covetousness, and Mataseis, after having exchanged a look with his companion, at last answered, in a voice strangled by the emotion which he vainly strove to suppress:

"It would be detestably annoying, caballero, but we should still refuse."

"Then you have decidedly made up your mind?"

"Perfectly, caballero."

"But you have grave motives, no doubt, for acting thus?"

"Certainly, caballero," answered Mataseis; "your service is very agreeable – you see that we render you full justice – too agreeable indeed, for we have nothing to do!"

"What! Nothing to do?" cried the young man.

"Yes, in our line," replied Sacatripas, making a significant gesture, and placing his hand on the knife placed in his polena.

"And that displeases you?"

"Considerably, señor."

"But if it pleases me that it should be so – since you are paid, notwithstanding, what does it matter to you?"

"Very much, caballero; we are men of action – we are, señor, known caballeros, and we have a reputation to sustain. It is not for nothing that we are called Sacatripas and Mataseis; we are getting rusty in your service, señor; and, moreover," added he with dignity, "we rob you of your money; that will not do."

"What do you mean – rob me of my money?"

"Certainly, caballero, since you do not employ us."

The young man fixed on the bandits – who this time supported it with erect heads – a look of singular expression, and resumed:

"Very well, I admit the first reason; now for the second."

"Pardon, caballero, this is the second: we have now stopped near the Rio Guachipas, have we not?"

"As to that, you ought to know better than I."

"Yes, it is the Rio Guachipas," said Tyro, who had arrived, and who seated himself near his master.

"Very well," resumed Mataseis, bowing courteously to the Guarani, "we have this morning traversed the Rio Dulce."

"What does that signify?" interrupted Emile.

"Pardon, señor; the Rio Dulce is in the province of Tucumán."

"The Rio Guachipas also," added the Guarani.

"Yes," answered the gaucho, without disconcerting himself, "but you will traverse this evening the Rio Bermejo; the Rio Bermejo is in the llano de Manso, and forms a part of the province of Yapizlaga."

"That is true; but what does that matter?"

"Very much, señor; we do not know where your journey will end, and it may last much longer yet; on the other hand, the Rio Dulce runs to Santiago del Estero, where we were born. We want much to see our native country. Now, as we are only a short distance from it, we intend to retrace our steps, follow the banks of the river, and return to Santiago as soon as possible, in order to comfort our families," he added, assuming a piteous countenance, "whom so long an absence has considerably disquieted."

Emile and Tyro had much difficulty in not bursting out into a fit of laughter in the face of the gauchos, at this singular remark.

"Very well," at last said the painter; "you can leave when you like; you are free."

The gauchos were profuse in thanks, made their most gracious bows, and prepared to withdraw. They had already gone some paces when Tyro recalled them.

"Eh! Señores," he cried.

And they came back.

"Come, you have an account to render before you go."

"Just so, señor."

"And you were going like that, without taking what is due to you!" pursued the Guarani, in a sarcastic tone, which had considerable effect on the gauchos, who, in their desire to go away as quickly as possible, had completely forgotten the money; "That is very gracious on your part."

"I beg you to excuse me, señor," answered Mataseis, with self-possession; "we intended to claim the miserable money before leaving you."

"Eight ounces (£17) – you call that a miserable sum; it is, however, not to be disdained."

"We by no means disdain it, believe me."

Tyro took out eight ounces of gold from a leather purse which he always carried, and presented them to Sacatripas.

The gaucho's eye brightened suddenly at the sight of the gold, and he quickly held out his hand to take it; but Tyro withdrew his hand, and appearing to remember something:

"By the way," said he, "you doubtless remember all the conditions of your agreement?"

"All," answered the gaucho, with his eye fixed on the pieces of gold that Tyro amused himself by chinking in his hand.

"Good; you know that you cannot undertake anything against Señor Don Emile or his friends during the month which follows the termination of your agreement with him?"

"Eh!" said the bandits, starting as if they had been stung by a serpent.

"Yes, so it is written," answered Tyro carelessly.

"Pardon!" sentimentally observed Sacatripas; "But I think that this clause adds that we shall be free of that engagement on the condition of not accepting at our departure the last month's salary."

"Ah! I see that you remember this clause well," cried Tyro, laughing, and making the gold glitter more than ever in the eyes of the gauchos; "so, make your decision, my masters – accept or refuse."

"We refuse," said Mataseis.

"You refuse what?"

"To receive our salary," answered with effort the two men, whose tongues appeared to stick to the roof of their mouths, so much difficulty had they in saying these few words.

"Good, that is agreed," said Tyro, putting the gold in his leather purse, and the purse in his pocket; "a word to the wise! We will be on our guard."

"Oh. I do not fear them," said Emile shrugging his shoulders with scorn.

"¡Caray! Nor I either," said the Guarani. "However, it is good to know how to act."

"Señor," said Mataseis, wrapping himself with dignity in the folds of his poncho, "we have neither hatred nor friendship for you. You are indifferent to us. We do not cherish any project to your prejudice, but we wish to remain free. Liberty is better than gold."

And after this bit of buffoonery, the two gauchos bowed, as Scaramouche would have done, and withdrew apparently quite satisfied with themselves.

Emile followed them with a look for a short time, and then turning towards Tyro:

"No matter, my friend," said he laughing, "it must be confessed that those two fellows are very well matched, physically and morally."

"Yes, they are a pretty pair."

"I expect we shall soon hear something more of them."

"Probably," answered the Guarani, becoming thoughtful. "I will watch them."

"You are right; as to me, I shall worry myself no more about them. Well, good night. I shall go and regain the time they have caused me to lose. I am very sleepy. What a capital invention is that siesta!"

The young man stretched himself on the grass, closed his eyes, and in five minutes he was sound asleep.

Tyro, after a few moments reflection, left him to his repose.

CHAPTER XV
THE GAUCHOS

The gauchos, like knowing men, aware that it would not be long before they wanted their horses, were careful not to unsaddle them. They had contented themselves with removing the bridle to enable them to feed on the fresh and short grass of the bank, and, for fear of accident, they had attached them by lassos to the trunks of trees.

After the interview which we have related, they returned quickly to find their horses, apparently being in great haste to get away.

But at the moment of putting his foot in the stirrup, Mataseis, whom, as the reader has observed, was the cleverer of the two, stopped suddenly, and turning towards his friend, already in the saddle:

"Eh, companion," said he, "what are you doing?"

"I am going off, you see," answered the other in a sulky air.

"You are going off like that?"

"Why, how do you wish that I should go off?"

"¡Caray! Like a true caballero as you are, by taking leave honestly of our travelling companions."

"To the devil with such folly," said the other, spurring his horse.

But Mataseis boldly seized the horse by the curb, and arrested him in his course.

"It is not folly, my dear fellow," said he; "no one would be less inclined to do that than I; but serious matters are in question."

"Serious matters!" said Sacatripas, with astonishment.

"Caray, I believe you. Ah, where do you come from, my dear fellow? Have you forgotten that we are almost prisoners of the Moros. Ought we not to inform them of our departure? I by no means wish that some thirty of these demons should be at our heels with those interminable lances."

"¡Rayo de Dios! Companion; I have no more wish for that than you, believe me. The mere thought of it chills my blood."

"Bah! reassure yourself; things will go better than you think for. I am convinced that these honest countrymen will be delighted at seeing us go away."

"Let us hope so, companion, let us hope so. I confess that if they wish to get rid of us, there is between them and myself an extraordinary sympathy, for I heartily hope never to see them again."

"Good, you admit the justice of my argument, then."

"Yes, I admit it – I proclaim it!" he cried, with enthusiasm.

"If that is the case, as we ought to lose as little time as possible, get down from your horse and follow me."

"Where are we going?" asked Sacatripas, immediately alighting.

"To the chiefs. Is it not to them that we ought to address ourselves?"

The Guaycurus captains were sitting a little apart, in the shade of a cluster of forest trees which completely sheltered them from the heat of the sun. Instead of imitating the example of their warriors by sleeping, they were conversing, apparently on important matters, as their dignified gestures and their serious mode of talking would have led an observer to believe.

Notwithstanding the large share of effrontery with which they were by nature endowed, it was nevertheless with timidity that the gauchos approached the warriors, before whom they stopped, after having humbly bowed to them.

Arnal turned towards them, and after having with cool contempt eyed them from head to foot for a minute or two:

"What do you want?" he asked in Spanish.

"Honourable captain," answered Mataseis, making a bow which resembled a genuflexion, "my brother and I have the ambitious desire to obtain the kind consideration of your lordship, so that – that – "

And the poor devil stopped short in this intricate sentence, from which he did not know how to escape, upset by the stem and disdainful look of the chief.

"Come to the point – what do you want? Explain yourself briefly," said the chief.

"We wish to leave," resumed Mataseis, boldly taking courage.

"What, to leave? Are you, then, in such a hurry? Wait till we give the order to resume the march."

"Your lordship does not do me the honour to understand me," humbly answered Mataseis, more at his ease. "We wish to separate ourselves from your honourable troop, in order to attend to our personal affairs."

"Ah!" said the chief in a sharp tone, and darting at him a searching look; "If it is so, your master very little understands courtesy if he sends you in his place. Or perhaps he thinks us beneath him?"

"Your lordship still does not understand me," pursued the gaucho, with ill-concealed spite; "my master is entirely ignorant of our application. He has no intention of leaving you."

"Well, then, if that is the case, what do you mean by your application?" cried the chief, whose countenance became immediately calm at this news. "Go to sleep, and do not bother me anymore." Then, turning towards his mute companions, he said scornfully, "These whites, when they have tasted firewater, lose their reason."

"Your honourable lordship errs," replied the gaucho, without concerning himself with the leave which had been so unceremoniously given him. "I have not drunk firewater; nor has my companion. My master has sent us away from his service," added he, slightly altering the truth; "we therefore ask your permission to leave the camp, and to go where we think proper."

"Aha!" cried Arnal, with a disdainful smile, "Is that it?"

"Nothing else, honourable cap – "

"Go, go; be off as quick as possible," cried the chief, interrupting him; "the sooner we are rid of you, the better we shall like it."

And stopping with a peremptory gesture the pompous expressions of gratitude, and the obsequious salutations which they thought themselves obliged to make, the chief dismissed them, and immediately resumed his conversation with the captains, as though he had not been interrupted by this incident.

The gauchos did not wait for a repetition of the invitation which they had had; they prepared immediately to profit by the permission given them, and took themselves off at a smart gallop in the direction of the Rio Dulce.

During half an hour, or thereabouts, they proceeded quickly without exchanging a word; then, when they had completely disappeared in the windings of the path, and they were quite certain that the tall grass effectually concealed them, they slackened by degrees the pace of their horses, and soon entered some thick shrubbery.

After having alighted, unsaddled their horses, and having assured themselves by a minute search that they had nothing to fear from the ears of any spy, they stretched themselves on the grass, and, free from all care, lit their puros, which they began to smoke with great gusto.

"Ah! My dear fellow!" said Mataseis, sending a long column of bluish smoke, which escaped at the same time from his nose and mouth, "What brutes these Pagans are! Upon my word they are idiots. But what could one do? I was obliged to make concessions."

"And you have done very well, brother," answered Sacatripas; "the principal thing for us was to escape from the trap in which we were."

"Your approbation is very sensible, my dear fellow; it is sweet to be understood."

"But tell me; now that we are alone, and quite certain not to be heard, we can speak with freedom."

"Between ourselves, we never speak otherwise."

"That is true. Nature has created us brothers."

"Well said, Sacatripas; you have summed up in a few words the bonds that unite us."

"Thank you," answered Sacatripas; "now candidly, I am afraid you have committed an error."

"Oho! And how's that, if you please?"

"Why, it is that I do not at all know this country."

"Because memory fails you."

"Possibly; but I should not be sorry to be quite certain."

"That is easy; listen to me. We crossed this morning the Rio Dulce, did we not? At the ford on this side of the river we passed near a thicket of Holm oaks."

"Let me see, I do not very well remember. There was a wood that we traversed, the trees of which, about the height of a man, were vertically notched."

"Ah, upon my word, it was so. Well?"

"Well, behind this wood was some very thick shrubbery, that we also crossed."

"We were told to be in a thicket in the midst of which there is a larch tree."

"Very good. Look carefully round you; we are in the thicket, and there is the larch tree behind us."

"Upon my word, I confess that I had not remarked it. On the first branch of the tree there ought to be a cross."

"Look, my dear fellow, look," answered Mataseis.

"¡Caray! I will have the matter cleared up," cried Sacatripas, rising and going towards the tree.

In a minute he returned.

"Honour to you!" he said; "You follow a track like a Pampas Indian; the cross is there."

"Did I not tell you so?" answered Mataseis.

"It is true," humbly answered the other, "but I did not like to believe you."

There was a pause of a few minutes, during which the two gauchos yawned, so as almost to put their jaws out of joint.

"When is he to come?" asked Sacatripas.

"He will be certainly here at sunset."

Sacatripas raised his eyes, stifling a new yawn.

"Hum!" murmured he; "It is scarcely two in the afternoon; we have still three hours to wait; it is very long."

"You are getting weary," said his companion.

"I confess it to my shame – I am horribly tired," said he, lighting another puro.

"Time hangs heavily when there is nothing to do," sententiously remarked Mataseis.

"That is true," gaped Sacatripas, lighting his cigar.

"Ah! I have it! What do you say to a game?" said Mataseis.

"Good!" exclaimed Sacatripas; "Why should we not have a hand?"

"Let us do so," they cried, brightening up, and each taking an old pack of cards from their pockets, at the same time drawing their knives from their girdles.

These two movements had been executed with such precision and so simultaneously, that they showed that, notwithstanding the great friendship of which they made a parade, the two brothers had not an unlimited confidence in each other's honesty.

"What shall we play for, my dear fellow?" carelessly asked Mataseis shuffling the cards.

"We must play for something."

"Certainly; without that, there would be no pleasure."

"Well put – if we played only for honour."

"Pooh!" exclaimed Sacatripas; "Between us, my dear fellow, honour does not signify much."

"What do you mean?" cried Mataseis.

"I mean," pursued Sacatripas, "that we are both too accomplished and too justly renowned caballeros to risk our honour on a card."

"¡Caray! That is well thought, and delicately said. I entirely share your opinion, my friend."

"It seems to me that the stake is easy to find. For some time we have received a few ounces without having met with any opportunity to spend it."

"Very well, we will play for an ounce."

The two pieces of gold were placed on the grass. They drew lots who should deal. Fate favoured Mataseis, and the game commenced.

Monte is the American lansquenet. Its combinations are the same, or nearly so, as those of lansquenet; only as more cards are on the table, the chances of the banker are greater. The chief art in the game is – as in all games of chance, for that matter – to adroitly shuffle and deal the cards, talents which the Spanish-Americans possess in an eminent degree. They could easily teach the Greeks, the cleverest people in Europe, who are very skilful in the matter.

The game that the two brothers were playing was all the more curious, inasmuch as each one knew thoroughly the resources that his adversary possessed, and his manner of playing.

Two hours passed, during which they did no harm, which the reader can easily understand; the two friends watched each other too narrowly.

During all this time, there had been very little conversation. The only words that they pronounced were in connection with the game, and they confined themselves to the announcement of the colours – words like these, for example, and very little understood by a third party – bastos, palos, copas, oro, sometimes adding the same before the colour – siete de copas, cinco de palos, &c. However, as often happens, Mataseis, who, in playing fairly, saw fortune favouring him, wished to force the luck, and oblige her to remain faithful to him. The mode was easy for him, and perfectly within his reach; let us do him the justice to acknowledge that he hesitated a long time to employ it – not that his conscience revolted the least in the world against the expedient, which appeared all fair to him – but simply that he was afraid he would be discovered by his companion.

The strife was long; it lasted at least five minutes, but there were four ounces on the game – a pretty sum. There wanted only a dos de oro to win the game. Mataseis balanced the card between his fingers; he was ready to turn it – when he suddenly stopped, leant forward and listened.

"Did you not hear something, my dear fellow?" said he.

His companion turned his head a little.

"No, nothing," said he.

The movement which he had made, rapid as it had been, was enough; the stroke was played, a magnificent dos de oro, carelessly thrown by Mataseis, stood out boldly by the side of the other.

"I have lost again," piteously said Sacatripas, drawing another ounce from his pocket.

"Will you go on?" asked Mataseis, removing the stakes.

This was too much; it awakened the half-dormant suspicions of Sacatripas.

"Yes," replied he; "why not?"

"Why, because you are not in luck, and I should not like to occasion you too serious losses, my dear friend."

"I thank you, but don't concern yourself about that, I beg; luck will return to me, I hope."

"Very well; how much shall we play for this time?"

"Four ounce," boldly said Sacatripas.

"Hum! That is a good deal; mind you are not stumped out."

"Bah! Nothing venture, nothing win. Come, there are my four ounces."

"There are mine!"

Mataseis won again, but this time fairly; fortune favoured him. Sacatripas bit his lips till the blood came, but he did not appear to notice it. He prided himself on being a good player. Coolly drawing his money from his pocket, and piling it before him:

"Ten ounces," said he.

"Oh! oh!" cried Mataseis; "That is a good deal, but I must add two ounces, for there are but eight on the game."

"That is true; well, add them."

"It is a good deal," resumed he.

"Are you afraid?"

"I afraid!" cried Mataseis, wounded in his self-love, and whose covetousness was still more excited by the gold spread out before him; "come on then; you are joking;" and he added the two ounces which were wanting.

The game became enthralling; there were twenty ounces staked on it.

"La codicia rompe el saco," says a Spanish proverb, which may be translated: Avarice breaks the purse. The sight of the pieces of gold which glittered before his eyes made Mataseis forget all prudence: he had but one thought – to secure, no matter by what means, the sum placed like a bait before him.

After a moment or two of hesitation, he seized the cards with a feverish hand, and commenced the game.

Sacatripas, instead of taking a third puro, carelessly made a cigarette. Apparently indifferent, he followed with a sullen eye all the movements of his adversary.

Several cards had been turned, without the ocho de bastos, which would decide the game in favour of Mataseis, appearing. The more the game advanced, the more the anxiety of the gaucho increased.

Sacatripas laughed gently; he made pleasant jokes on the delay of the appearance of the tres de copas, which would win the game for him.

The question was between the ocho de bastos and the tres de copas. If one turned up first, Mataseis would win; if the other, he would lose. Suddenly, the gaucho turned pale; he saw, on drawing the card that he was about to turn, that it was the tres de copas – that is to say, that he should lose; a cold sweat burst upon his countenance: his hand trembled.

Sacatripas did not flinch; he also had seen the card. We have said that for these two knowing men the back of the cards virtually did not exist.

"Well," said he, after a pause, "do not you turn it, companion?"

"Yes, yes," answered Mataseis, in a choking voice; then suddenly starting like a wounded buck, "this time, I am sure," cried he excitedly, "we are watched."

With a movement rapid as thought, Sacatripas had with one hand picked up the stakes, and with the other seized and turned one of the cards, at the very moment when Mataseis tried to slip it under the pack.

"This time, companion," said he, in a sharp and biting tone, "I catch you; you are robbing me."

"I rob you!" cried the other in a thundering voice, "I, a caballero – you dare to accuse me of such infamy! You tell a lie, miserable pícaro! It is you who are a thief."

Mataseis had but one resource – that was to get into a rage, and he did so. For that matter, he had ample reasons. He had been caught with his hand in the bag, in the very act of theft, and then – and this made him especially furious – he had lost twenty ounces; for he knew his brother too well to suppose that he would ever consent to give him back the stakes on which he had seized.

"Upon my word," said Sacatripas, with irony, "the game becomes wearisome; luck was against me; we should soon not have known what to do. Let us fight a little; that will help us to pass the time."

"Let us fight then," cried Mataseis, seizing his knife, and placing his poncho half rolled round his left arm for a shield.

"One moment," said Sacatripas, who had imitated all the movements of his brother, and, like him, was ready for a fight; "let us first settle the conditions of duel; we are caballeros."

"Very good, let us settle them," answered Mataseis, taking a step backward.

"Let us first ask ourselves this question – is the quarrel well founded?"

"It is," duly answered Mataseis.

"Be it so, I admit it; it demands blood."

"It shall have it."

"Does it demand that one of us remain on this soil?"

Mataseis hesitated an instant.

"No," he at last replied.

"Very well; we will not fight with the whole blade."

"No, certainly; it appears to me that five inches will be sufficient."

"I think that will be too much," sententiously replied Sacatripas. "We only fight because our honour is attacked, and because we are caballeros; but the rage which just now excites us ought not to make us forget that we are brothers, and that we love one another very much."

"That is true, we love one another very much."

"This is what I propose, then; we will only fight with two inches, and for the first blood. Is that agreeable to you, my dear fellow?"

"I am at your orders; what you have proposed seems to me just, and I accept it."

"Well, if that is the case, let God protect the right."

Each of the adversaries seized his knife, so that the hand was placed just two inches from the point of the blade, preventing the steel from entering further. After having courteously bowed, they placed themselves on their guard, the body leaning forward, the legs apart and slightly bent, the left arm extended to parry, and the right hand, holding the knife, lightly resting on the right thigh.

The fight began.

The two brothers were expert in the management of the knife; they knew every movement, and dealt with extreme rapidity blow upon blow continually dodging one another.

The knife is not a weapon so easy to be managed as might at first be imagined. The Spanish-Americans have made a profound study of it, and none can equal them in the way in which they manage it. The weapon demands great suppleness of body, a wonderful rapidity of movement, and extreme quickness.

Two antagonists can fight a very long time without being wounded, thanks to the poncho – a shield whose wavy folds deaden the blows, and prevent them from reaching the body, completely sheltering the chest.

The two brothers appeared to have completely forgotten the friendship of which they had every now and then so much boasted, such deadly aim did they take, and with such force did they deal their blows.

All this time, notwithstanding the coolness which he feigned, Mataseis was deeply vexed by the very cause which had led to his taking a weapon in his hand. The shame of having thus been taken in the act of theft further increased his rage, and took from him, by blinding him with the hope of a prompt vengeance, the presence of mind necessary to sustain the fight without disadvantage.

This circumstance had not escaped Sacatripas, who, while pushing his brother to extremity, and threatening him on all sides at once, never laid himself open to a blow, and kept himself always on his guard.

"¡Rayo de Dios!" cried Mataseis, suddenly, making a sudden backward step, "I believe I am caught!"

"I think so too," answered Sacatripas, looking coolly at the point of his knife; "here is blood!"

At that moment a sound of footsteps was heard, and a man appeared in the thicket.

"Ha! Ha!" said he, rubbing his hands joyously; "There is fighting here; do not disturb yourselves, companions; I will be your witness; I should be much annoyed to disturb you in the least."

At the sound of this voice the two men stood back, trembling.

"You come too late, Don Pablo!" said Mataseis, with a gracious smile; "We have done."

"Already!" answered Don Pablo Pincheyra – for it was he who had so suddenly arrived; "That is a pity."

"We were amusing ourselves till you came, señor, merely to keep our hand in," said Sacatripas.

"Hum!" said the partisan; "The amusement is pretty, and quite to my taste. You were doing well, I think. Señor Mataseis has a gash on his cheek, which has a fine effect."

"Oh! A scratch!" replied Mataseis, with a ghastly smile, and, for want of a handkerchief, wiping his face with his poncho; "Better that I should be wounded than my brother, who is so good, and whom I love so much."

"These sentiments honour you as well as your brother," ironically answered Don Pablo; "it is charming, upon my word, to see a family so united as yours; I am quite overcome by it."

"You flatter us, señor," answered Mataseis, who did not know whether to laugh or to cry, but who, in the dilemma, adopted the former alternative.

"Well," said Don Pablo, "as you have now finished – for you have done, have you not? – "

"Quite, señor."

"Very well; then, if you please, Señor Mataseis, you shall wash your face with a little water, and then, as I have not a moment to lose, we will speak a little of our business."

"We are at your orders, caballero."

"I will be back in a minute," said Mataseis, leaving the thicket, and running towards a stream not far distant.

"Ah, you have had a quarrel, then, with your brother, Señor Sacatripas?" asked Don Pablo.

"I, señor!" cried the gaucho, with a start of affected astonishment; "I quarrel with my brother, my only relation, my only friend – he whom I cherish more than myself! Oh, señor, you cannot believe it!"