The horsemen who advanced in the canyon, in the direction of Casa-Frama—as the headquarters of the Pincheyras was called—formed a troop of about thirty men. All were well armed and well mounted. Their costume had a military appearance, and, although riding at a hand gallop, they preserved their order, and rather resembled soldiers or partisans than peaceable travellers who had come to the Cordilleras on business.
Two horsemen, mounted on magnificent black animals, richly harnessed, preceded by a few paces the body of the troop, and were talking together with some animation. They had not yet perceived Don Pablo or the French painter, who, half hidden by the fragments of rock, observed them attentively.
"These are indeed the persons whom I expected," said he; "come let us go into the camp again."
"Why not receive them here where we are, since they must absolutely pass before us?"
"Better that they should not find us here; I ought to receive these persons with a certain decorum that their rank exacts."
"As you like; but it will be rather difficult to reenter the camp without being overtaken by them, especially at the pace they are coming."
"Do not be uneasy about that," pursued Don Pablo, smiling; "still follow me."
"Let us go," said the painter, repressing a movement of curiosity.
Indeed, it seemed impossible, from the place where they were, for the two men to regain the camp without being not only perceived, but overtaken in a few minutes by the travellers.