“Do you remember nothing of your young days, more than you have just related to the Canadian?”
“Nothing—ever since I learnt that Arellanos was not my father, I have tried to remember something, but to no purpose. I do not even know who took care of me in my infancy.”
“No more know they of you, my poor young man. I am the only one who can tell you these things of which you are ignorant.”
“For heaven’s sake speak!” impatiently cried Fabian.
“Hush! not so loud!” cautioned the trapper. “These woods, remote and solitary as they seem, nevertheless contain your deadliest enemy—unless, indeed, it was at me that the bullet was aimed. That may make a difference in your favour. In fact, since I have not been able to recognise you, I do not see how he can?”
“Who—of whom do you speak?” brusquely demanded Fabian.
“Of your mother’s murderer—of the man who has robbed you of your titles, your honours, your wealth, and your name.”
“I should be noble and rich then?” cried Fabian, interrogatively. “Oh that I had but known it sooner—only yesterday!”
Fabian’s thoughts were upon Rosarita. If he could have told this to her, in that sad parting interview, perhaps the result might have been different!
“Noble! yes!” replied Pepé, “you should be and shall yet, if I mistake not—but rich—alas! you are no more rich.”