"This is what has occurred," pursued the Montonero. "For certain reasons, too long to tell you—and which, moreover, would very little interest you, I am convinced—I am the friend of this brave Indian, to whom I cannot, and do not wish to refuse anything. Two days ago, then, he came to me, at one of my habitual rendezvous that he has long known, and made me promise to come here with some of the men of my squadron, in order to protect the flight of several persons in whom he is much interested, and whom the patriots—I do not know for what reasons—have proscribed."
"Hum!" cried the young man, rising quickly, and throwing away his cigar; "Continue, continue; Señor; it this becomes very interesting to me."
"So much the better; only you do wrong to throw away your cigar on that account. I have come, then. Unhappily, notwithstanding all the precautions that I have taken, I have been discovered, and—you know the rest."
"Yes, but you do not know it, Señor, and I am going to tell you," answered the Indian.
"I should like nothing better."
"One moment!" cried the painter, holding out his hand to the Guaraní. "I owe you an apology, Tyro, for my unjust suspicions. I offer it from the bottom of my heart. You know how soured I must be through all that has happened to me the last few days, and I am convinced that you will excuse me."
"Oh, that is too much, master; your goodness confounds me," answered the Guaraní, with emotion. "I only wished to prove to you that I am still your faithful servant."
"There remains not the least doubt of that, my friend."
"Thank you, master."
"Yes, yes," murmured the Spaniard; "believe me, Señor, these redskins are better than they are generally supposed, and when they once are attached to you, you can always reckon on them; now, my brave friend," added he, addressing Tyro, "tell me what, according to you, I do not know."