nd vows--were going on with the
game, which had been so suddenly interrupted that morning at the village
of Huerfano.

Pedro Diaz appeared to be merely an involuntary spectator; while Oroche,
seated at one corner of the table, his right leg across his left, his
elbow resting on his knee--the favourite attitude of mandolin players--
accompanied his own voice as he sang the _boleros_ and _fandangos_ then
most in vogue among the inhabitants of the coast region.

Wrapped as usual in his ragged cloak, Oroche appeared to have the true
inspiration of an artist: since he could thus elevate himself upon the
wings of music, above the vulgar consideration of the toilette, or the
cleanliness and comfort of the person. A bottle of _mezcal_, already
half empty, stood upon the table. From this the players occasionally
helped themselves--as a finale to the elegant supper they had eaten and
to which Cuchillo, Baraja, and Oroche had done ample honour.
Notwithstanding the frequent bumpers which Cuchillo had quaffed, he
appeared to be in the worst of humour, and a prey to the most violent
passions. His shaggy eyebrows, contracted by the play of these
passions, added to the evil aspect of his physiognomy, rendering it even
more sinister than common. Just then he was observed to cut the cards
with particular care. He was not playing with his friend Baraja for the
mere sport of the thing; for a moiety of the half ounce he had received
from Don Estevan had already gone into Baraja's pockets, and Cuchillo
was in hopes that the attention which he had given to the cutting of the
cards might change the luck that had hitherto been running against him.
The careful cutting, however, went for nothing; and once more the sum he
had staked was swept into the pocket of his adversary. All at once
Cuchillo flew off into a passion, scattering his hand of cards over the
table.

"Who the devil wants your music?" cried he to Oroche in a furious tone,
"and I myself, fool that I am, to play in this fashion--only credit when
I win, and cash whenever I lose."

"You offend me, Senor Cuchillo," said Baraja, "my word has always passed
for its value in cash."

"Especially when you don't happen to lose," sneeringly added Cuchillo.

"That is not a very delicate insinuation," said Baraja gathering up the
cards. "Fye, fye! Senor Cuchillo--to get angry about such a trifle! I
myself have lost half a hacienda at play--after being robbed of the
other half--and