"I was not mistaken," the count said all at once; "uncock your rifle, caballero; you have nothing to fear, for that individual is one of my peons. What motive could have induced the countess to send off a courier?"
"We are going to learn," the Canadian replied, as he laid his rifle across the saddlebow again, "for he will have joined us in five minutes."
In fact, the horseman shortly after accosted them. He was a sturdy peon, with sun burnt face and powerful limbs; he was well armed, and rode one of those prairie horses which European steeds can never equal. On coming up to his master, he stopped his horse so short that its four feet seemed to be suddenly welded to the ground, and, bowing respectfully to the count, he took from the China crape faja, tightly fastened around his hips, a bag of opossum skin, from which he drew a letter, and handed it to his master. The count opened the letter, but before reading it looked at the peon with ill-disguised anxiety, and said to him—
"Has anything new occurred at the hacienda, Diego López?"
"Nothing, mi amo, that I know of at least."
"The señora is not indisposed?"
"No, Excellency; but on learning from the lancero, whom you sent to Leona Vicario, that you would probably pass the hacienda on your return without stopping, she gave me this letter, and bade me make all speed."
"Is that really all? You are telling the truth, Diego López?"
"By my share of Paradise, Excellency, I have told you all exactly as it happened."
"Very good—wait."