They spoke
truth, and when that feeling left me I was able to do all things."
The old man's story so sickened me that I had little appetite for
supper, and passed a bad night thinking, waking or sleeping, of that
young man in this obscure corner of the world who folded his arms and
smiled on his slayers when they were slaying him. Very early next
morning I bade my host good-bye, thanking him for his hospitality, and
devoutly hoping that I should never look upon his abhorred face again.
I made little progress that day, the weather proving hot, and my horse
lazier than ever. After riding about five leagues, I rested for a
couple of hours, then proceeded again at a gentle trot till about the
middle of the afternoon, when I dismounted at a wayside _pulperia_
or store and public-house all in one, where several natives were sipping
rum and conversing. Standing before them was a brisk-looking old
man--old, I say, because he had a dark, dry skin, though his hair and
moustache were black as jet--who paused in the discourse he appeared
to be delivering, to salute me; then, after bestowing a searching
glance on me out of his dark, hawk-like eyes, he resumed his talk.
After calling for rum and water, to be in the fashion, I sat down on
a bench, and, lighting a cigarette, prepared to listen. He was dressed
in shabby gaucho habiliments--cotton shirt, short jacket, wide cotton
drawers, and _chiripa_, a shawl-like garment fastened at the waist
with a sash, and reaching down half-way between the knees and ankles.
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