"Yes, yes," he said, shaking his head sadly, "my position is so precarious, the struggle I am engaged in is so wild, that, although I am supported by sincere friends, I cannot be too prudent. Tell me, then, what you know as to the fate of the unfortunate Doña Anita de Torrés. Is she really dead, as the report spread alleged?"
"Do you know what happened in the cavern after your fall down the precipice?"
"Alas! no; my ignorance is complete as to the facts that occurred after I was abandoned as dead."
Carnero reflected for a moment. "Listen, Don Martial: before I can answer categorically the question you have asked me, I must tell you a long story. Are you ready to hear it?"
"Yes," the other answered, without hesitation, "for there are many things I am ignorant of, which I ought to know. So speak without further delay, señor, and though some parts of the narrative will be most painful to me, hide nothing from me, I implore you!"
"You shall be obeyed. Moreover, the night is not yet far advanced; time does not press us, and in two hours you will know all."
"I am impatiently waiting for you to begin."
The capataz remained for some considerable time plunged in deep and serious reflection. At length he raised his head, leant forward, and setting his left elbow on the table, began as follows:—
"At the time when the facts occurred I am about to tell you, I was living at the Hacienda del Palmar, of which I was steward. Hence I was only witness to a portion of the facts, and only know the rest from hearsay. When the Comanches arrived, guided by the white men, Don Sylva de Torrés was lying mortally wounded, holding in his stiffened arms his daughter Anita, who had suddenly gone mad on seeing you roll down the precipice in the grasp of the Indian chief. Don Sebastian Guerrero was the only relation left to the hapless young lady, and hence she was taken to his hacienda."
"What?" Don Martial exclaimed in surprise. "Don Sebastian is a relation of Doña Anita?"