PAGE 11
The Devotion of Enriquez
by
“You have arrived, friend Pancho, in time,” he said, in accents of exaggerated weakness. “I am absolutely exhaust. I am bursted, caved in, kerflummoxed. I have behold you, my friend, at the barrier. I speak not, I make no sign at the first, because I was on fire; I speak not at the feenish–for I am exhaust.”
“I see; the bull made it lively for you.”
He instantly bounded up in the hammock. “The bull! Caramba! Not a thousand bulls! And thees one, look you, was a craven. I snap my fingers over his horn; I roll my cigarette under his nose.”
“Well, then–what was it?”
He instantly lay down again, pulling up the sides of the hammock. Presently his voice came from its depths, appealing in hollow tones to the sky. “He asks me–thees friend of my soul, thees brother of my life, thees Pancho that I lofe–what it was? He would that I should tell him why I am game in the legs, why I shake in the hand, crack in the voice, and am generally wipe out! And yet he, my pardner–thees Francisco–know that I have seen the mees from Boston! That I have gaze into the eye, touch the hand, and for the instant possess the picture that hand have drawn! It was a sublime picture, Pancho,” he said, sitting up again suddenly, “and have kill the bull before our friend Pepe’s sword have touch even the bone of hees back and make feenish of him.”
“Look here, Enriquez,” I said bluntly, “have you been serenading that girl?”
He shrugged his shoulders without the least embarrassment, and said: “Ah, yes. What would you? It is of a necessity.”
“Well,” I retored, “then you ought to know that her uncle took it all to himself–thought you some grateful Catholic pleased with his religious tolerance.”
He did not even smile. “BUENO,” he said gravely. “That make something, too. In thees affair it is well to begin with the duenna. He is the duenna.”
“And,” I went on relentlessly, “her escort told her just now that your exploit in the bull ring was only a trick to divert the bull, suggested by the management.”
“Bah! her escort is a geologian. Naturally, she is to him as a stone.”
I would have continued, but a peon interrupted us at this moment with a sign to Enriquez, who leaped briskly from the hammock, bidding me wait his return from a messenger in the gateway.
Still unsatisfied of mind, I waited, and sat down in the hammock that Enriquez had quitted. A scrap of paper was lying in its meshes, which at first appeared to be of the kind from which Enriquez rolled his cigarettes; but as I picked it up to throw it away, I found it was of much firmer and stouter material. Looking at it more closely, I was surprised to recognize it as a piece of the tinted drawing-paper torn off the “block” that Miss Mannersley had used. It had been deeply creased at right angles as if it had been folded; it looked as if it might have been the outer half of a sheet used for a note.
It might have been a trifling circumstance, but it greatly excited my curiosity. I knew that he had returned the sketch to Miss Mannersley, for I had seen it in her hand. Had she given him another? And if so, why had it been folded to the destruction of the drawing? Or was it part of a note which he had destroyed? In the first impulse of discovery I walked quickly with it toward the gateway where Enriquez had disappeared, intending to restore it to him. He was just outside talking with a young girl. I started, for it was Jocasta–Miss Mannersley’s maid.