“Yes, yes, I did—I did kill him! Marcos, Marcos, come here, or he will murder you because you stand between him and wealth. Come, let us go to Senora Canelo, your mother, Marcos; she will protect you!”
“Peace, tio, no one will harm you now. These gentlemen are friends. They saved our lives, don’t you remember?” said the youth, soothingly.
“No, I tell you, no! He is your deadly enemy, that man is. He is your uncle, and hired me to kill you, but I deceived him, and now you will be rich—rich, and so will Carlita!”
“This is not altogether raving, senor,” said Canelo, to Marcos, as the latter glanced at him. “But we can not explain now. When we get to the hacienda, I will do so. Do you think he could be borne in a litter?”
“Yes, yes, I must bear it! I must see the Senora Canelo before I die, to tell her all I know,” cried Ventura, eagerly.
“Don Augustin, what does this mean?” asked Tadeo Campos.
“You hear. It is true what he says. I did hire him to dispatch Felipe Canelo, and if he speaks true, then this man must be the real heir.”
“The features are the same as his father’s. Holy Mother, if it should be true!” murmured Campos, placing a hand upon the shoulder of the astonished youth, and keenly scrutinizing every feature.
“Felipe Canelo—what do you mean? Who am I?” he faltered.
“We shall soon see. But come. We must fix a litter between two horses, and convey Ventura to the hacienda. There is no time to lose,” returned Canelo.