Cuchillo opened the door, outside of which appeared one of the attendants of Don Estevan. Without entering the man communicated his message—which was to Cuchillo himself—to the effect that Don Estevan awaited him in the garden. The outlaw, without reply, followed the servant, who conducted him to an alley between two rows of granadines, where a man wrapped in his cloak was pacing to and fro, apparently buried in a deep meditation. It was Don Estevan himself.
The approach of Cuchillo interrupted his reverie, and a change passed over his countenance. Had Cuchillo not been preoccupied with his own thoughts and purposes of vengeance, he might have observed on the features of the Spaniard an expression of disdainful raillery, that evidently concerned himself.
“You have sent for me?” said he to Don Estevan.
“You cannot otherwise than approve of my discretion,” began the Spaniard, without making answer. “I have allowed you time enough to sound this young fellow—you know whom I mean. Well! no doubt you have penetrated to the bottom and know all—you, whose perspicacity is only equalled by the tenderness of your conscience?”
There was an ascerbity in this speech which caused the outlaw to feel ill at ease, for it re-opened the wounds of his self-esteem.
“Well,” continued Don Estevan, “what have you learnt?”
“Nothing,” replied Cuchillo.
“Nothing!”
“No; the young man could tell me nothing, since he knew nothing himself. He has no secrets for me.”
“What! does he not suspect the existence of the Golden Valley?”