Of course I had no weapon of any kind, but the Spaniards had allowed me to keep the silver key, which hung around my neck by a thin, stout cord.
I had almost forgotten the mountaineer's strange words, when a trifling incident brought them vividly to my mind. One morning the Indian, as usual, brought in my breakfast, and was turning to go, when he suddenly stopped and stared at me with a look of intense surprise. He was a short, stout, beardless man, with a bright brown complexion and rather intelligent features.
"Well," I exclaimed, "what is it? Have I altered much since yesterday?"
The man bent one knee, and bowing low, exclaimed in great excitement, "It is the key!"
Then I discovered that, my shirt collar being unfastened, the silver key had slipped outside, where it hung in full view.
"Yes," said I, "it is the key right enough. What of it?"
His eyes were flashing now, and the glow in them lit up his whole face.
"What is the master's name?" he whispered eagerly.
Now this was an awkward question for me to answer. In the first place, the man might or might not be trustworthy; and in the second, the only name I knew was that of the bandit chief. However, I concluded the venture was worth making, and said, "Men call the owner of the key Raymon Sorillo."
"Ah!" exclaimed the Indian, with a sigh of satisfaction, "he is a great chief. Hide the key, señor, and wait. A dog's kennel is no place for the friend of our chief."