and see if both do not know me as Captain Don Cornelio Lantejas. If
they do not I consent--"

At this point Arroyo interrupted the speaker, springing forward and
crying out in a husky voice--

"Woe be to you if you are lying! I will pluck the tongue out of your
head, and scourge with it the cheeks of an impostor."

Lantejas, now elevated in spite of himself to a point of haughty
grandeur, replied to this menace only with a superb smile.

Clara being sent for, the moment after appeared within the room.

"Who is this man, dog of a negro?" interrogated the fierce brigand.

This time too punctual in executing the orders of his captain, the black
displayed his ivory teeth in a smile of significant intelligence. "Don
Lucas Alacuesta, of course!" he replied.

A cry of gratification issued from the lips of the bandit.

"But there is another name which I also bear, is there not?" inquired
Don Cornelio, without losing countenance.

"Don Cornelio Lantejas," added Clara.

"The proofs--the proofs!" cried the guerillero, pacing rapidly backward
and forward, like a caged tiger who sees the spectators outside the bars
of his prison without being able to devour them, "the proofs!--I must
have them at once."

At this moment confused and violent noises were heard outside the door,
and rising above all the voice of Costal. The door was suddenly burst
open, and the Indian rushed into the middle of the room, holding in one
hand a bloody dagger, while the other was enveloped in a shapeless mass
of what seemed to be cloth. The latter was serving him for a shield
against the attack of several guerilleros, who were pressing him from
behind.

Costal, on getting inside, turned abruptly and stood facing his
adversaries.

These, finding themselves in the presence of their chief, desisted for a
moment from the attack--one of them crying out to Arroyo, that the
Indian had poniarded their comrade Gaspacho.

"I did it to get back my own property," replied Costal, "or rather that
of Captain Lantejas; and here it is."

In saying these words, the Zapoteque unwound from his left arm what had
served him as a buckler, and which was now seen to be the cloak so
inopportunely missing.

Don Cornelio seized it from him with an exclamation of joy, and at once
plunged his hands into the pockets.

"Here are my proofs!" cried he, drawing out a number of papers, so
stained with blood, fresh from the veins of the slain robber, as to be
scarc