“What! mi amo! (my master) Here?” replied the Indian, with a gesture of surprise.
“And why not here? Can any place be better? If we again enter the defile we may find no other level spot. See! the llamas will go no farther. We must remain therefore.”
“But, master,” continued Guapo—“see!”
“See what?”
“The trees, master!”
“Well, what of the trees? Their shade will serve to screen us from the night dew. We can sleep under them.”
“Impossible, master—they are poison trees!”
“You are talking foolishly, Guapo. These are molle trees.”
“I know it, señor; but they are poison. If we sleep under them we shall not awake in the morning—we shall awake no more.”
And Guapo, as he uttered these words, looked horrified.