“Are you sure that the will is not a false one?” inquired the Colonel, not without suspicions as to the veracity of Zapote.
“Neither of us knows how to read,” replied the ex-guerillero, with an air of affected innocence.
“But take my word for it, cavallero,” he hastily added, “we had better get out of this place as quickly as we can. We have already lost too much time.”
“But my horse,” objected the Colonel, “what’s to be done with him?”
“Oh, you have a horse? Well, then, the best way is to leave him behind: he will only embarrass you.”
“He would certainly do so,” interrupted the messenger, “if he was like a horse I once knew. Ah, that was a devil of an animal! If you had only heard—”
The man was alluding to a horse he had once seen in the stables of his master, Don Mariano de Silva, and which was no other than Roncador himself. He was about to recount the peculiarities of this famous steed—which would no doubt have led to a recognition between himself and Don Rafael—when his speech was interrupted by voices heard in different directions, as if men were approaching the spot from different sides.
Both Don Rafael and the messenger interrogated with anxious regard the countenance of Zapote.
“Carrambo!” exclaimed the latter, “it may be more serious than I thought.”
The voices had now broken forth into shouts and cries—as if uttered by men engaged in a chase; and the sounds expressed a sort of vengeful resolve—on the part of those who uttered them—not to show mercy or give quarter.