"Ah!" he said, rising; "Here is the priest."
"Yes," said the monk in a low, but perfectly distinct voice; "kneel down, my son: I am prepared to receive your confession."
The young man started at the sound of this voice, which he fancied he recognized; and his ardent and scrutinizing glance was fixed on the monk standing motionless before him. The latter knelt down, making him a signal to imitate him. Don Melchior mechanically obeyed. These two men thus kneeling on the desert crest of this hill, faintly lit up by the feeble and flickering light of the lanthorns, which rendered the darkness that surrounded them on all sides more profound, offered a strange and striking spectacle.
"We are watched," said the monk. "Display no agitation; keep your nerves quiet, and listen to me. We have not a moment to lose. Do you recognize me?"
"Yes," don Melchior said, faintly; who, feeling a friend at his side, involuntarily clung to hope, the sentiment which last survives in the human heart: "Yes, you are don Antonio de Cacerbar."
"Dressed in the garb I am now wearing," don Antonio continued; "I was on the point of entering Puebla, when I was suddenly surrounded by masked men, who asked me whether I was in orders? On my affirmative reply—a reply made at all hazards, in order not to destroy an incognito which is my sole safeguard against my enemies, these men carried me off with them, and brought me here. I witnessed your trial while shuddering with terror for myself, if I were recognized by these men, from whom I escaped once before solely by a miracle; but, whatever may happen, I am resolved to share your fate. Have you weapons?"
"No. But of what use are weapons against so large a body of enemies?"
"To fall bravely, instead of being ignominiously hung."
"That is true!" the young man exclaimed.
"Silence, unhappy man!" don Antonio said, sharply. "Take this revolver and this dagger. I have the same for myself."