"All right."
"Good-bye."
Pincheira left the choza; and the Indian chief looked after him for a moment.
"Go," he said, "ferocious brute, to whom I throw a people as prey. Go! Miserable instrument of projects whose greatness you do not understand," he added, as he looked at the Indians, "they are making holiday, playing like children, and unsuspicious that I am about, to make them free. But it is time for me to think of my own vengeance."
And he quitted the choza, leapt on a horse, which an Indian held by the bridle, and started at a gallop on the road to Carmen.
At the end of an hour he stopped on the banks of the Rio Negro, dismounted, assured himself by a glance that he was alone, took off a leathern valise fastened to his saddle, and entered a natural grotto a few paces distant. There he quickly doffed his Indian garb, dressed in handsome European attire, and set out again.
It was no longer Nocobotha, the supreme chief of the Indian nations, but Don Torribio Carvajal, the mysterious Spaniard. His pace was also prudently altered, and his horse carried him at a gentle trot toward Carmen.
On coming near the spot where, on the previous evening, the bomberos had halted with their sister to hold a consultation, he dismounted again, sat down on the grass, and took from a splendid cigar case made of plaited Panama straw, a cigar, which he lit with the apparent tranquillity of a tourist who is resting in the shade, and is admiring the beauty of the scenery.
During this time the footfall of several horses disturbed the solitude of the Pampa, and a hoarse voice struck up an Indian song well known on this border:—
"I have lost my Neculantey in the country of Tilqui. Oh! Ye damp plains, which have changed him into shadows and flies."