"It is the dog, señors, there is nothing else."
An exclamation of joy broke from the two Mexicans. They were at least relieved of the overpowering dread that had seized them at the sight of the blood, and at once joined Hugh. The dog, a fine Cuban blood-hound, was lying dead, stabbed in a dozen places.
"What can it mean, father?" Don Carlos said in a low voice.
"I can hardly think," the Mexican said, passing his hand across his forehead.
"I am afraid, señor, it is too evident," Hugh put in. "This is the explanation of what my friend heard. The brigands did not intend to attack the hacienda. They have carried off your daughters, and the hound has died in their defence."
"That must be it," Don Ramon exclaimed in the deepest anguish. "Oh, my poor girls, how can it have happened!"
"I expect they were in hiding here," Hugh said, "and sprang up suddenly and seized and gagged the señoritas before they had time to scream. The hound doubtless sprang upon them, and, as you see, they killed it with their knives."
"What is to be done?" Don Ramon asked hopelessly.
"The first thing is to follow the path down to the road," Hugh said; "probably they had horses somewhere. Will you tell the men to go along cautiously with their torches near the ground."
Don Carlos gave the order in Mexican. One of the party, who was the chief hunter at the hacienda, went a little ahead of the others with a torch. He stopped a short distance before he reached the junction of the path with the road, which they could see ahead of them in the moonlight.