“Is that really your idea?” said the chief, looking fixedly at Diaz.
“It is; although, to say the truth, Cuchillo is one of those people whom one is rarely wrong in accusing of perfidy; but I do not see what object he could have in betraying us.”
Don Estevan pointed to the fog which hid the tops of the mountains in the horizon. “The neighbourhood of those mountains,” said he, “might explain the absence of Cuchillo.” Then, with a changed tone, “Are our men still of the same mind.”
“Yes, Señor, and have more confidence than ever, in the chief who watches while they sleep, and fights like the humblest of them.”
“I have battled in many parts of the world,” said Don Estevan, sensible to praise, the sincerity of which he believed in, “and I have rarely commanded men more determined than these. Would they were five hundred instead of sixty, for then on the return of this expedition my projects would be easy of accomplishment.”
“I am ignorant what these projects are, of which you now speak to me for the first time,” said Diaz in a reserved tone. “But perhaps Don Estevan thinks me ambitious, only because he does me the honour to judge me by himself.”
“It is possible, friend Diaz,” replied Don Estevan, smiling; “the first time that I saw you I thought that your mind was of the same stamp as my own. We are made to understand each other, I am sure.”
The Mexican had all the vivacious intelligence of his country; he had judged Don Estevan, but he waited for him to take the initiative. He therefore bowed and kept silence.
The Spaniard pushed open the curtains of the tent, and, pointing one more to the horizon, “Another day’s march,” said he; “and we shall encamp at the foot of those mountains.”
“Yes, we are scarcely six leagues distant.”