Don Estevan paused, to let his words have their full effect. It was his design to crush by his superiority the man whose fidelity he had a thousand reasons to suspect.
“Tiburcio,” continued he, “is of a race—or appears to be of a race—that unites intelligence with courage; and you are his mortal enemy. Do you begin to understand me?”
“No,” said Cuchillo.
“Well, you will presently, after a few simple questions which I intend to ask you. The first is:—In your expedition with Arellanos, had you not a horse that stumbled in the left leg?”
“Eh!” ejaculated Cuchillo, turning pale.
“A second question:—Were they really Indians who murdered your companion?”
“Perhaps it was me?” replied the outlaw, with a hideous smile.
“Third question:—Did you not receive, in a deadly struggle, a wound in the leg? and fourth: Did you not carry upon your shoulder the dead body of Arellanos?”
“I did—to preserve it from being mutilated by the Indians.”
“One more question:—Was it for this you flung the dead body into the neighbouring river—not quite dead, it may be?”