"Nothing!" replied Don Estevan sorrowfully; "We are too late. Don José has killed himself rather than submit to be carried off by these dogs."
"He was a noble soldier!" said the major; "But how can we get at the rascals again?"
"We will let them alone, major: they are in camp by this time. Trust me, we shall soon learn to read this riddle."
The mayor domo dismounted, and cut with his machete a branch of the resinous pinewood, which grows so abundantly through all the country. He struck a light, and in a minute or two a torch was ready.
By its ruddy and flickering flame, he and the major began to examine the bodies on the ground. They soon found the governor, lying on his back, with his head horribly crushed. His hand still retained the fatal weapon; and his features wore an expression of haughty disdain and indomitable courage.
"Look at him!" said Don Estevan.
The major could not repress the tear that rolled silently down his swarthy cheek.
"Yes," he said; "he has died like a soldier, with his face to the foe. But, alas! he has fallen a victim to treachery—killed by a white man. My poor old friend! Was this to be your end?"
"It was God's will," answered Don Estevan.
"It was," said the major: "may we do our duty as he has done his!"