The dying man made a gesture of energetic denial.
"No," he exclaimed, "never! Look you, my father: there are accursed natures in the world. El Buitre was a wretched bandit. Well, he dies as he lived: that is just. Good-by, father! Well, I saved your friend, the hunter. Ah, ah!"
While saying this the wretch had sat up. Suddenly he was seized with a convulsion, and rolled on the ground: he was dead. The missionary knelt down by his side and prayed. All present, moved involuntarily, took off their hats piously, and remained silent by his side. All at once shouts and firing were heard, and a numerous baud of horsemen galloped down the pass.
"To arms!" the men shouted, leaping into their saddles hurriedly.
"Stay," Curumilla said; "they are friends."
[CHAPTER XVIII.]
THE SURPRISE.
Employing our privilege as romancers, we will go back a little way, and return to Don Cornelio, whom Valentine looked after with such astonishment when he saw him leave the camp in such an unusual manner.
In the first place we will say a few words about Don Cornelio, that joyous and careless gentleman whom, in the first part of this history, we saw so impassioned for music generally, and the romance del Rey Rodrigo in particular. At the present time he was greatly changed: he no longer sang—the chords of his jarana no longer vibrated under his agile fingers; a deep wrinkle crossed his brow; his cheeks had grown pale; and he frowned incessantly under the pressure of gloomy thoughts. What could have happened? What powerful cause had thus changed the Spaniard's character?