“Ah!” cried he, “Don Estevan knows of the Golden Valley? perhaps then he can tell me who murdered my father! Oh! my God!” cried he, striking the ground with his heel, “perhaps it was himself!”
“Pray God rather to protect you,—you will need all his grace!” cried a rough voice, which caused Rosarita to utter a cry of terror as she saw a dark form—that of a man—rushing forward and flinging himself upon Tiburcio.
The young man, before he could place himself in an attitude of defence, received a severe wound, and losing his balance fell to the ground. The next moment his enemy was over him. For some minutes the two struggled together in silence—nothing was heard but their loud quick breathing. The knife of Cuchillo, already stained with blood, had escaped from his hand, and lay gleaming upon the ground without his being able to reach it.
“Now, villain, we are quits,” cried Tiburcio, who with an effort of supreme strength had got uppermost, and was kneeling upon the breast of the outlaw. “Villain!” repeated he, as he endeavoured to get hold of his poignard: “you shall die the death of an assassin.”
Places had suddenly changed—Tiburcio was now the aggressor, but at this moment a third personage appeared upon the scene. It was Don Estevan.
“Hold,” screamed Rosarita, “hold, for the love of the Holy Virgin! This young man is my father’s guest; his life is sacred under our roof.”
Don Estevan grasped the arm that was raised to strike Cuchillo, and as Tiburcio turned to see what thus interfered between him and his vengeance, the outlaw glided from under him.
Tiburcio now sprang up, rolled his serapé around his left arm, and holding it as a shield, stood with his body inclined backward, his left leg advanced, and his right hand firmly grasping his weapon, in the attitude of an ancient gladiator. He appeared for a moment as if choosing upon which of his antagonists he would first launch himself.
“You call this being quits!” cried Cuchillo, his breast still heaving from the pressure to Tiburcio’s knee. “Your life belongs to me—I only lent it to you, and I shall now take it back.”
“Come on, dog!” shouted Tiburcio, in answer; “and you too, Don Estevan, you cowardly assassin! you who pay for the murder of defenceless people.”