"Be it so," don Melchior remarked bitterly; "I will retire since I am compelled to do so;" and looking at the count disdainfully, he added, "We shall meet again, señor, and then I hope, if the strength is not entirely on my side, that at least the chances will be equal."
"You have already been mistaken on that point, señor; I have too much confidence in God to believe that it will not always be so."
"We shall see," he replied in a hollow voice, falling back a few paces as if to withdraw.
"And your father—do you not wish to know what the result of your ambush has been with him?" Dominique then asked him in a tone of dull menace.
"I have no father," don Melchior replied savagely.
"No," the count exclaimed in disgust, "for you have killed him."
The young man shuddered, a livid pallor covered, his face, a bitter smile contracted his thin lips, and casting a venomous glance at those who surrounded him, he cried in a choking voice—"Make way; I accept this new insult; make way for the parricide."
Everybody recoiled with horror watching this monster, who departed across the plain, apparently calm and peaceful. Cuéllar himself watched him retire with a shake of the head.
"That man is a demon," he muttered, and crossed himself.
This gesture was piously imitated by the soldiers. Doña Dolores was gently raised in Dominique's arms, placed on the count's horse, and the young men, escorted by Cuéllar, returned to don Andrés. The peons had bound up their master's wounds to the best of their ability. By the count's orders, they then made a litter of branches, which they covered with their sarapes, and the old gentleman was laid on it by his daughter's side. Don Andrés was still unconscious. Cuéllar then took leave of the count.