"Which, I trust, you have not yet taken, my dear count, for our friendship is one of those which nothing can weaken, as it rests on too solid a basis—an oath of vengeance which we took together—and which we have as yet been unable to accomplish, in spite of all our efforts."
The count's brow was contracted by a painful thought.
"Yes," he murmured, "you are right, Don Aníbal; there is a vengeance we have sworn to take. Oh, whatever may happen, I will keep my oath."
"Perhaps," the hacendero continued, "the hour is nearer at hand than you suppose."
"Is that the truth, Don Aníbal?" he exclaimed, suddenly starting up. "Shall we at length reach the object for which we have so long been striving?"
"I hope so, Señor Conde; as I am more at liberty than you, and better situated to obtain information, I believe that I am at last on the track."
"Speak, speak! What do you know, my friend?"
"Speaking today would perhaps be imprudent. I do not wish to leave anything to chance; give me a few more days, and then—"
"But," the count interrupted him passionately, "the insult I have to avenge is more serious than yours; my murdered brother, my boy carried off, perhaps killed, whose blood is incessantly crying out after their cowardly and barbarous murderers."
"And I have my wife, my well-beloved wife, who was rendered mad by terror, and my daughter, who escaped by a miracle from the frightful sting of a snake. Oh, believe me, count, I suffer as much as you, for all my happiness has been for ever destroyed."