"The devil! I have been followed then! I did not know I had friends who took such an interest in me."
An equivocal smile played on the expressive lips of the Indian, but he did not answer.
"You, no doubt, know the person who has thus played the spy?"
"Yes, I know him, master."
"You will tell me his name, then?"
"I will tell you, when the time arrives to do so; but he is but an instrument; besides, if this person spies you at the command of another, I watch him, master, for your sake; and what he has been able to discover is of little importance. I alone possess your secrets, so you may be easy."
"What! You know my secrets!" cried the painter, again provoked at the moment when he least expected it; "What secrets?"
"The white rose and the letter of the Callejón de las Cruces; but I repeat that I alone know it."
"This is too much!" murmured the young man.
"A devoted servant," seriously remarked the Indian, who had heard the "aside" of the painter, "ought to know all, so that when the time comes that his assistance may be necessary, he may be in a position to come to his master's aid."