"You conclude from that—?"
"That those fires have been lighted by robbers or Indians, who have had scent of our departure."
"Stay, stay! That is most logical, my friend. Continue your explanation, for it interests me enormously."
Don Sylva's capataz, or steward, was a tall, herculean fellow of about forty, devoted body and soul to his master, who placed the greatest confidence in him. The worthy man bowed with a smile of satisfaction on hearing the hacendero's kind remarks.
"Oh! Now," he went on, "I have not much more to say, except that the ladrones who are watching us know, through that signal, that Don Sylva de Torrés and his daughter have left Guaymas for the Rancho."
"My faith! You are right. I had forgotten all those details. I did not think of all the birds of prey that are watching our passage. Well, after all, though, what do we care if the bandits are at our heels? We do not hide ourselves. Our start took place in the presence of plenty of persons. We are numerous enough not to fear any insult; but if any of those picaros dare to attack us, cascaras! They will find their work cut out for them, I am convinced. Push on, then, without any fear, Blas, my boy! Nothing unpleasant can happen to us."
The capataz saluted his master and galloped back to the head of the column. An hour later they reached the Rancho without any accident.
Don Sylva rode at the right-hand door of the palanquin, talking to his daughter, who only answered in monosyllables, in spite of the continued efforts she made to hide her sorrow from her father's clear eyes, when the hacendero heard his name called repeatedly. He turned his head sharply, and uttered an exclamation of surprise on recognising in the man who addressed him the Count de Lhorailles.
"What! Señor conde, you here? What singular hazard makes me meet you so near the port, when you should have been so far ahead of us?"
On perceiving the count the Doña felt herself blush, and fell back, letting the curtains of the palanquin slip from her hand.