"That is true," Doña Clara said, as she dismounted and knelt by the side of the wounded man. "Poor fellow! What frightful suffering he must be enduring."
"Can you not tell us anything, then?" Don Sancho asked.
"Almost nothing," the chief replied, "this is all that I know."
And he narrated in what way the monk had been confided to him, and how he had served as his guide, till they met the white men, when the monk discharged him for the purpose of joining them.
"But," he added, "I know not why, some secret foreboding seemed to warn me not to leave him: hence, instead of going away I hid myself in the shrubs, and witnessed, unseen, the tortures they had him undergo, while insisting on his revealing to them a secret, which he refused to divulge. Conquered by his constancy, they at length abandoned him half dead. Then I rushed from my hiding place, and flew to his help. That is all I know; I am a chief, I have no forked tongue, and a falsehood has never sullied the lips of Omopoua."
"Forgive me, Chief, the improper language I used at the first moment; I was blinded by anger and sorrow," said Don Sancho, holding out his hand.
"The paleface is young," the chief replied with a smile; "his tongue moves more quickly than his heart;" then he took the hand so frankly offered him, and pressed it cordially.
"Oh, oh!" the Major-domo said, with a shake of his head, and leaning over to Don Sancho's ear, "If I am not greatly mistaken, Don Stenio is mixed up in this affair."
"It is not possible," Don Sancho replied, with horror.
"You do not know your brother-in-law, Excellency; his is a weak nature, and all such are cruel; believe me, I am certain of what I state."