We had not proceeded far till we met with evidence which proved to us that we were now on the trail of the robbers. Don Blas, seeing some pieces of wood lying on the ground, alighted and picked them up. It was the remains of one of the little boxes in which the sacks of piastres had been packed. He then begged me, in spite of my entreaties, to remain where I was; and, wheeling his horse about, set off at full speed. A turn in the road soon hid him from my view, and I remained alone, without being able to explain the reason of his singular conduct. A painful suspicion, which I had been trying to drive from my mind for some time, now recurred to me with redoubled force. Had Don Blas really any connivance with those robbers, whose presence he wished to seek without a witness? Suddenly a distant shot was heard, which roused me from my reflections. I thought I heard likewise a feeble cry of alarm and distress. I listened, but every thing was calm and silent round me. Prudence urged me to retrace my steps. The captain might be killed; if still alive, dangerously wounded. In these two cases I could be of no assistance; but I resolved to return to procure help. Having come to the place where Don Blas and I had separated from our companions some time before, I discharged my two pistols in succession. I soon had the satisfaction of being rejoined by two of our men, whom I informed in a few words of what had passed.
"The brigands!" cried Juanito; "they are capable of killing my captain for his gold epaulets;" and, to prevent a proceeding so prejudicial to his interests, the sergeant set off at a gallop. The lancers imitated his example, and I followed them, impatient to rejoin Don Blas, but without much hope that Juanito would be deceived. My fears were soon changed to a painful certainty. The captain, unhorsed by the shot I had heard, lay upon the grass, his breast pierced by a ball, but still alive, in spite of the dangerous nature of his wound, and the blood that was flowing from it in abundance. We all hastened to assist him. One of the soldiers stanched the blood, and bound it up very dexterously with our handkerchiefs. While one of the escort went in pursuit of Don Blas's horse, which had escaped, and the captain, with his back to the trunk of a tree, was slowly reviving, I began to examine the ground on all sides. The unhappy man had evidently surprised the bandits at the very moment they were dividing their booty, for broken boxes and bags turned outside in strewed the ground in all directions. Refreshed by a sip of brandy that I caused him to swallow, Don Bias declared that he had seen nobody, and that he had but newly arrived at the place when he was stretched on the earth by a musket-shot. He then added that he knew the hand that had fired the piece. This was too singular a contradiction to provoke a reply. Whether he had said too much, and, being fatigued, wished to say no more, I know not, but he spoke not another word. In the mean time his horse had been caught, and the wounded man affirmed that he thought himself sufficiently recovered to be able to reach the convoy. Still, his strength not being equal to his inclination, it was necessary to lift him on horseback. A soldier mounted behind to support him and take the reins, and we set out on the road to Hoya.
We arrived there about midday. A new incident here awaited us. Scarcely had Don Bias been laid on one of the rough beds, hastily knocked up for him in a cabin in the village, when a detachment of the escort which had been scouring the country round all the morning brought in a prisoner with his hands tied behind his back. His face was blackened, and half concealed by a handkerchief. This disguise was most suspicious, as it is the one usually adopted by Mexican highwaymen. Under this hideous mask I fancied I discerned—a remarkable circumstance—the features of a man who had played a most prominent part in one of the most melancholy episodes of my wanderings, Don Tomas Verduzco. Surrounded by a crowd, he did not discern me. He entreated to be led to the captain; and his voice, though altered by his agitation, was still that of the bravo. I went before the men who were conducting him, and entered first into the hut where Don Blas lay. As soon as he saw the person they had brought him, his pale face became livid, and hatred gleamed in his eyes; he, however, said nothing. The prisoner stood unmoved, and an air of impudent assurance had replaced the expression of stupefaction that was visible a moment before in his countenance.
"What! Señor Don Blas!" cried he; "can I believe my eyes? Are you dangerously wounded? The conducta, it seems, has been pillaged in part, and I am accused of having assisted in that piece of villainy. Good God! it seems as if it were only a dream."
"I fear that it is something worse than a dream," replied the captain, coldly.
"What do you mean by that coldness?" said the bravo, for it was really he. "Your lordship will, perhaps, be less pleased at seeing me than I am in meeting you."
"On the contrary," answered Don Blas, in a voice to which excitement had restored all its former firmness, "I doubt if you are as glad to see me as I am to have you in my power."
"I do not understand you, Señor Captain," returned the bravo, impudently.
"You will understand me," said the captain. "If I am pleased at meeting you again, it is only that I may treat you as a highwayman, as a murderer, by shooting you at once, without benefit of clergy."
The look of the captain, which expressed an implacable hatred, added strength to his words; and the bravo, the predominant feature of whose character was evidently not courage, seemed almost to quail under this terrible menace, and he lost countenance for a moment. Seeing, however, that his wound gave Don Blas more assurance, he made a strong effort to master himself, and replied, in quite a firm tone of voice,