Mayne Reid - The White Chief - A Legend of Northern Mexico

So ran the talk – rough and ribald – upon that delicate theme – woman. The presence of the trio of churchmen was no restraint. On the contrary, both padrés and cura boasted of their liaisons with as much bawd and brass as the others, for padrés and cura were both as depraved as any of their dining companions. Any little reserve either might have shown upon ordinary occasions had disappeared after a few cups of wine; and none of them feared the company, which, on its part, stood as little in awe of them. The affectation of sanctity and self-denial was meant only for the simple poblanos and the simpler peons of the settlement. At the dinner-table it was occasionally assumed by one or the other, but only by way of joke, – to give point and piquancy to the relation of some adventure. In the midst of the conversation, which had grown somewhat general and confused, a name was pronounced which produced a momentary silence. That name was “Carlos the cibolero.”

At the mention of this name several countenances changed expression. Roblado was seen to frown; on Vizcarra’s face were portrayed mixed emotions; and both padrés and cura seemed to know the name unfavourably.

It was the beau Echevarria who had mentioned it.

“’Pon the honour of a cavallero! the most impudent thing I ever witnessed in all my life, even in republican Paris! A fellow, – a demned trader in hides and tasajo – in short, a butcher of demned buffaloes to aspire — Parbleu !”

Echevarria, though talking Spanish, always swore in French. It was more polite.

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