"Oh?" replied the count, with a courteous bow, "Since last night certain things have happened to me which I must impart to you, Don Sylva—things which will surprise you, I am certain; but the present is not the moment to commence such a story."
"Whatever you think proper, my friend. But say, do you set out again, or remain here?"
"I go, I go! In stopping here my sole object was to await you. If you consent we will travel together. Instead of preceding you at Guetzalli, we shall arrive together—that is the only difference."
"Capital! Let us go," he added, making a sign to the capataz. The latter, on seeing his master conversing with the count, had ordered a halt, but now the caravan started again. The Rancho was speedily traversed, and then the journey commenced in reality.
The desert lay expanded before the travellers in endless sandy plains. On the yellow ground, a long, tortuous line, formed by the whitened bones of mules and horses that had broken down, indicated the road which must be followed so as not to go astray.
About two hundred yards ahead of the caravan a man was trotting along, carelessly seated on the back of a skeleton donkey, swaying from side to side, half lulled to sleep by the burning sunbeams which fell vertically on his bare head.
"Eh?" Don Sylva said, on perceiving the man. "Blas," said Don Sylva on perceiving this man, "call the Indian over yonder. These devils of redskins know the desert thoroughly and he can serve as our guide. In that way we shall run no risk of losing our road, for he will be sure to put us right."
"Quite true," the count observed; "in these confounded sand hills no man can be sure of his direction."
"Go to him," commanded Don Sylva.
The capataz put his horse at a gallop. On arriving within a short distance of the solitary traveller, he formed a sort of speaking trumpet with his hands.