"Entra!" shouted Don Gil, before one had the time to knock, and Rotiro entered. He had no time to say a word. He had not swung his arm round his head, nor settled the machete safely in the post of the door, before Don Gil said, impatiently:
"Well! well! What is it? Will the man never speak? Did you see the Señor Escobeda? Open that stupid head of yours, man! Say something--"
Rotiro was breathless. He set his gun in the corner with great deliberation. At first his words would not come; then he drew a quick breath and said:
"I saw the Seño' E'cobeda, Don Gil. He is a fine man, the Seño' E'cobeda. Oh! yes, he is a very fine man, the Seño'!"
"Ah!" said Don Gil, dryly, "did he send me a message, this very fine man?"
Rotiro thrust his hand into the perpendicular slit that did duty for a legitimate opening in his shirt. He was dripping with moisture. Great beads stood out upon his dark skin. He pulled the faded pink cotton from his wet body and brought to light a folded paper. This he handed to Don Gil. The paper was far from dry. Don Gil took the parcel. He broke the thread which secured it--the thread seemed much shorter than when he had knotted it earlier in the day--and discovered the letter which he sought. The letter was addressed to himself.
Don Gil opened this missive with little difficulty. The sticky property of the flap had been impaired by its contact with the damp surroundings. Don Gil read the note with a frown.
"Caramba hombre! Did you go up back of Troja for this?"
Rotiro raised his shoulders and turned his palms outward.
If Rotiro had gone "up back of Troja" for nothing, it was obviously the initial occasion in the history of the island. The natives, as well as the foreigners, seemed to go "up back of Troja" for every article that they needed. They bought their palm boards back of Troja. They bought their horses back of Troja. They bought their cattle back of Troja. Back of Troja was made the best rum that was to be had in all the island. Back of Troja, for some undiscovered reason, were found the best guns, the best pistols, the sharpest "colinos," smuggled ashore at the cave, doubtless, and taken in the night through dark florestas, impenetrable to officers of the law. Many a wife, light of skin and slim of ankle, had come from back of Troja to wed with the people nearer the sea. The region back of Troja was a veritable mine, but for once the mine had refused to yield up what the would-be prospector desired.