"What is it, cousin? Is the _silla_ slipping?"
Felisa looked up from under her cloud of spun silk, and answered:
"No, I am wondering how I am to get round that great tree."
Beltran, to whom the path was as well known as his own veranda at San Isidro, had no cause to turn his eyes from the charming face at his side.
"Oh! the trunk of the old mahogany? That has lain across the path for years. Do not be afraid, little cousin. Roncador has surmounted that difficulty more times than I can remember."
They were now close upon the fallen trunk. Felisa closed her eyes and clutched at the bull's shaggy neck. She screamed faintly.
Pablo turned to the right and pulled at the leading rope, but the bull, with no apparent effort, stubborn only when he knew that he was in the right, turned to the left, and Pablo perforce followed. It was a case of the leader led. When Roncador had reached the point for which he had started, a bare place entirely denuded of branches, he lifted one thick foreleg over, then the other. The hind legs followed as easily, a slight humping of the great flanks, and the tree was left behind. Suddenly Felisa found that they were in the path again.
"Ze bull haave ze raight," commented Pablo. "Ah endeavo' taike de Señorit' roun' de tre'. Bull ain' come. He know de bes' nor me." Don Beltran leaped his horse over the tree trunk, and Don Noé was taken over pale and trembling, whether or no, the roan following Don Beltran's lead. Beltran smiled openly at Pablo's discomfiture, and somewhat secretly at Uncle Noé's fear.
"A good little animal, that roan, Uncle Noé. How does he suit you?" Uncle Noé looked up and endeavoured to appear at ease, releasing his too tight clutch on the bridle.
"Il est rigolo, bien rigolo!" said Don Noé, gaily, between jerks occasioned by the liveliness of the roan. He glanced sidewise at his nephew to see if the Paris argot which he had just imported had had any effect upon him. He owed Beltran something for his superior horsemanship. Beltran never having heard the new word, was, however, not willing to give Don Noé a modicum even of triumph. He was bending over, securing a buckle on his bridle. Without raising his figure, he answered, "C'est vrai, mon oncle, c'est tout à fait vrai, il est très, très rigolo."