The beams of the moon, slanting through the leaves of the granadines, shone with a livid reflection on the face of the outlaw, who with haggard eyes listened, without comprehending whence they came, to the proofs of a murder which he believed forever buried in the desert.
Cuchillo, when imparting to Don Estevan the knowledge of his marvellous secret, had of course taken care not to give in detail the exact manner by which he had himself become master of it; he had merely stated such circumstances as were necessary to convince the Spaniard of the importance of the discovery. It would be impossible to paint the stupefied expression of his countenance, as he listened to these interrogatories. The very desert itself had spoken!
“Does Tiburcio know all this?” he asked, with an ill-dissembled anxiety.
“No; but he knows that the assassin of his father had a horse like yours; that he was wounded in the leg; that he flung the dead body in the water. Of one matter only is he still ignorant—the name of the murderer. But now let me say to you; if you give me the slightest cause to suspect your fidelity, I shall deliver the secret to this young man, who will crush you like a scorpion. Good blood never lies; so I repeat it, Cuchillo; no deception—no treason, or your life will answer for it!”
“Well, as regards Tiburcio,” muttered Cuchillo to himself, “if you only keep the secret till this time to-morrow night, you may then shout it in his ears: I shall have no fear of his hearing you.”
The outlaw was one of those characters who soon recover from a shock, similar to that he had just received. Almost on the instant he inquired, with impudent assurance:
“But your Excellency has not proved to me that this young fellow is in love with Doña Rosarita; and until I have proof of this I shall not doubt my penetration—”
“Hush!” interrupted the Spaniard; “I fancy I hear voices!”
Both remained silent. In advancing across the garden, the two men had approached nearer to the walls of the building, and on that side of it which fronted the window belonging to the chamber of Rosarita. They were still at a considerable distance from the window itself; but so tranquil was the night, that sounds could be heard along way off. As they stood to listen, a confused murmur of voices reached their ears—as of two persons engaged in conversation—but the words could not be distinguished.
“It is the voice of Tiburcio and Rosarita!” muttered the outlaw.