They descended the hill at a slow pace, and ere long found themselves in the plain; the night was dark, it was about two hours after midnight; the cold was severe, and the sorrowful travellers shivered under their sarapes. They took the high road to Puebla, which they reached at the expiration of about twenty minutes, and then broke into a more rapid pace; the town was only five or six leagues distant, and they hoped to arrive there at sunrise, or, at any rate, at a very early hour.
Suddenly a great light tinged the sky with reddish hues, and lit up the country for a long distance. The hacienda was on fire. At this sight, don Andrés cast a sad glance behind him, and gave vent to a deep sigh, but he did not utter a word. Cuéllar was the only person that spoke; he tried to prove to the count, that war had painful necessities, that for a long time past, don Andrés had been denounced as an avowed partisan of Miramón, and that the capture and destruction of the hacienda were only the results of his dislike of President Juárez. All matters to which the count, understanding the inutility of a discussion on such a subject with such a man, did not even take the trouble to reply. They rode on then for about three hours, without any incident occurring to disturb the monotony of their journey.
The sun rose, and by the first beams of dawn the domes and lofty steeples, of Puebla appeared in the distance, with their black and still indistinct outlines standing out against the dark blue sky.
The count ordered the party to halt.
"Señor," he said to Cuéllar, "you have loyally fulfilled the conditions stipulated between us; receive my thanks, and those of my unfortunate companions here; we are not more than two leagues from Puebla, it is daylight, and it is, therefore, unnecessary for you to accompany us further."
"In truth, señor, I believe that you can now do without me, and as you permit it, I will leave you, repeating my regret for what has occurred, but unfortunately I am not the master, and—"
"No more of this, pray," the count interrupted, "what is done is irreparable, for the present at least: so it is useless to dwell on the subject any longer."
Cuéllar bowed. "One word, señor Conde," he said, in a low voice.
The young man went up to him.
"Let me," the guerillero continued, "give you a piece of advice ere we part."