Felipillo looked as if he would consider the statement a lie if made, but did not say so.
"A hundred _castellanos_, or maybe a hundred and fifty," continued Rogelio, rubbing his hands and peering into the face of the interpreter. The youth gave him a brief, searching glance, and looked away.
"I really think of it," said the _veedor_. "Upon my honor I do! A hundred and fifty _castellanos_—but not more, understand—not more. Of course, my young friend, thou wouldst naturally hope to make some return for it, now wouldst thou not? He, he! Beyond a doubt, beyond a doubt! I see it in thy generous eye. _Bien_! Now, this is what I have to say. The Ñusta Rava—my Ñusta Rava!—hath fled, as thou knowest, with that bullying, swearing, blood-drinking scoundrel, Peralta. I want her back. Mendoza wants her back. I won her fairly at play, and she is mine; but I see that it grateth him to give her up. If he taketh her, he may not give her up. May the plague torture him a thousand years! Now, seest thou, I am not a man of arms. If I were, I would pursue her myself. But I am a civilian—an officer of the Crown, with a wife and—that is to say, Felipillo, I must not endanger myself in the hardship of a pursuit. I am not inured to it. I am too old—at least, my life and services are too valuable." The _veedor_ paused here to inflate his cheeks while he leaned back and surveyed the youth with dignity. But the dignity was marred somewhat by the snuffle with which he ended.
"Dost follow me? Good! Now, what I want of thee is this. Go to the camp of the Cañares, over the river, and set a pack of them on the scent of the runaways. What sayst thou? Mind thee—a hundred and fifty _castellanos_, good yellow gold!"
Felipillo had kept his eyes upon him with unusual steadiness. Now he looked aside, weighed the proposition, and shook his head. "Impossible, Señor."
"Impossible! Why impossible?" demanded the _veedor_; leaning eagerly forward. "One hundred and fifty _castellanos_ for thine own purse, boy! Why not?"
"Because one hundred and fifty _castellanos_ would not pay me and hire them. A thousand _castellanos_ would not hire them, Señor, for they care not for gold. They know not its worth."
"H’m! True!" said Rogelio, his jaw suddenly dropping in disappointment. "But—well, what would hire them? _Chicha_?"