“Really,” answered José with a brutal laugh, “perhaps you will remember presently. Here, father, warm the point of the machete in the lamp, will you, while I tell our guest how we are going to serve him and his daughter.”
Don Pedro nodded, and, taking the sword, he held the tip of it over the flame, while José bending forward whispered into the Indian’s ear, pointing from time to time to the girl, who, overcome with faintness or horror, had sunk to the ground, where she was huddled in a heap half hidden by the masses of her hair.
“Are you white men then devils?” said the old man at length, with a groan that seemed to burst from the bottom of his heart, “and is there no law or justice among you?”
“Not at all, friend,” answered José, “we are good fellows enough, but times are hard and we must live. As for the rest, we don’t trouble over much about law in these parts, and I never heard that unbaptised Indian dogs have any right to justice. Now, once more, will you guide us to the place whence that gold came, leaving your daughter here as hostage for our safety?”
“Never!” cried the Indian, “better that we two should perish a hundred times, than that the ancient secrets of my people should pass to such as you.”
“So you have secrets after all! Father, is the sword hot?” asked José.
“One minute more, son,” said the old man, quietly turning the point in the flame.
This was the scene that we witnessed, and these were the words that astonished our ears.
“It is time to interfere,” muttered the señor, and, placing his hand upon the rail, he prepared to drop into the church.
Now a thought struck me, and I drew him back to the passage.