"Let us finish with him," Don Miguel interrupted.
"Caspita! what a hurry you are in, my friend," the general answered. "Hum! I am certain he is not in such haste—are you, my good fellow?"
"Come," Valentine said, with that mocking expression he had through his Parisian birth, and which broke out at intervals—"our friend is in luck. He has fallen at the foot of a splendid tree, which will form an observatory whence he can admire the landscape at his ease. Curumilla, my worthy fellow, climb up the tree, and bend down that branch as much as you can."
Curumilla, according to his laudable habit, executed immediately the order given him, though without uttering a word.
"Now, my good fellow," the hunter continued, addressing the wounded man, "if you are not a thorough Pagan, and can recollect any prayer, I should recommend you to repeat it, for it will do you more good than ever it did."
And, raising Sandoval in his arms, who maintained a gloomy silence, he passed the cord round his neck.
"One moment," Curumilla remarked, as he seized with his left hand the bandit's thick hair.
"That is true," said the hunter. "It is your right, chief, so make use of it."
The Indian did not wait for this to be repeated. In a second he had scalped the Spaniard, who looked at him with flashing eyes, and coldly placed the dripping scalp in his girdle. Valentine turned away his head in disgust at this hideous sight, but the Spaniard did not give vent to a groan.
As soon as he had placed the running noose round the bandit's neck, Valentine threw the cord to Curumilla, who attached it firmly to the branch, and then came down again.