"Come," said he, "we will descend."
He then made a turn on the right, and gained the western extremity of the platform.
"See," said he.
The painter looked.
A ladder cut in the solid rock descended at a gentle declivity to a certain depth on the flanks of the mountain, and was lost in a thick cluster of forest trees.
"Chance, a long time ago," pursued Don Pablo, "revealed to me this passage at a time when I thought I should never have to make use of it. Now, it is very useful to me to enter and leave the camp without being seen; but we shall not remain long here. Come."
Don Pablo, with a confidence which would have been decided folly with any other man than the painter, then passed first, and began to descend without even turning his head to see if his companion followed him.
Nothing would have been more easy than to make this partisan lose his equilibrium by gently pushing him as if by chance, and so making him break his neck against the rocks. The thought did not even occur to the painter, notwithstanding the hatred which rankled in his heart against this man—a hatred revived by their recent quarrel. He followed his enemy in this hazardous descent, as unconcerned as if he had made a promenade of pleasure with an intimate friend.
It did not take them more than a few minutes to reach the base of the mountain, and place their foot in the valley.
"Here we are," said Don Pablo; "we ought to separate here; go to your affairs, and I will go to mine."