"Good day, Señhor Caballero," said the Friar, in Spanish, while the Mexican looked at the lock of his long-barrelled rifle, and retired a couple of paces, with a gesture of guarded caution. "Good evening, rather, Father," said I, in English. "I have ridden hard to come up with you, for the last twenty miles." "From the States?" said the Friar, approaching me, but with no peculiar evidences of pleasure at hearing his native language. "From your own country, Fra Miguel," said I, boldly--"an Irishman." "And how are you travelling here?" said he, still preserving his previous air of caution and reserve. "A mistake of the road!" said I, confidently; for already I had invented my last biographical sketch. "I was on the way to Austin, whither I had despatched my servants and baggage, when accidentally taking the turn to Upper Brazos instead of the lower one, I found myself some twenty miles off my track before I knew of it. I should have turned back when I discovered my error, but that I heard that a Friar, a countryman, too, had just set out towards Bexar. This intelligence at once determined me to continue my way, which I rejoice to find has been so far successful." To judge from the "Padre's" face, the pleasure did not appear reciprocal. He looked at me and the wagon alternately, and then he cast his eyes towards the Mexican, who, understanding nothing of English, was evidently holding himself ready for any measures of a hostile character. "Going to Austin," at last said the Friar. "You are a merchant, then?" "No," said I, smiling superciliously; "I am a mere traveller for pleasure, my object being to make a tour of the prairies, and by some of the Mexican cities, before my return to Europe." "Heaven guide and protect you," said he, fervently, with a wave of his hand like leave-taking. "This is not a land to wander in after nightfall. You are well mounted, and a good rider; push on, then, my son, and you 'll reach Bexar before the moon sets." "If that be your road, Father," said I, "as speed is no object with me, I 'd rather join company with you than proceed alone." "Ahem!" said he, looking confused, "I am going to Bexar, it is true, Señhor; but my journey is of the slowest: the wagon is heavy, and a sick companion whom it contains cannot travel fast. Go, then, 'con Dios!' and we may meet again at our journey's end." "My mare has got quite enough of it," said I, my desire to remain with him being trebled by his exertions to get rid of me. "When I overtook you, I was determining to dismount and spare my beast; so that _your_ pace will not in the least inconvenience me."