THE PRISONER.
When the hunter finished his narrative a gloomy silence prevailed for some minutes in the jacal. Outside the wind blew fiercely, and the rain fell in torrents. The smoky flame of the candle, flickering in the gusts, only spread an uncertain gleam over the pale faces of these men, who felt their hearts contracted by a sinister presentiment. The hacendero was the first to overcome the emotion he felt. With head erect, frowning brows, and features contracted by a supreme resolution, he walked rapidly up to the prisoner, and, pulling down roughly the zarapé that covered the lower part of his face, he gazed at him for a moment with an expression of grief and passion impossible to render.
"It is true, then," he at length muttered, in a dull voice, "this man I believed so devoted to me is a traitor. I alone was blind when everybody around me accused him. Speak, villain, what have you done?"
"It is my place to answer that question," the count said, as he walked forward and laid his hand on Don Aníbal's arm.
The hacendero looked at him in amazement.
"You, Señor Conde?" he said.
"Yes, I, Don Aníbal. I, who have only come here to tell you a frightful secret, and am compelled to bring a terrible accusation against this man."
Don Aníbal felt as if his heart would break.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, "What are you going to tell me, great God?"