The camp was already in motion, and confusion reigned everywhere; there was a general movement among these intrepid men, who were accustomed to such surprises, and who had already more than once measured their strength with their implacable enemies. Each armed hastily, but soon the tumult subsided, and all stationed themselves at the posts assigned to them in case of attack. The first who interrogated Cuchillo were the shepherd and Baraja.
“Unless you drew the Indians on to our track, how could they have discovered us?” said the former, with a suspicious look.
“Certainly it was I,” replied Cuchillo, impudently. “I should have liked to have seen you pursued by a hundred, of these demons, and whether you would not, like me, have galloped to the camp to seek an asylum!”
“In such a case,” replied Benito, severely, “a man to save his companions, does not fly, but gives up his life sooner than betray them. I should have done so.”
“Every one in his own way,” replied Cuchillo, “but I have an account to render only to the chief, and not to his servants.”
“Yes,” murmured the other, “a coward and a traitor can but commit baseness and perfidies.”
“Are the Indians numerous?” asked Baraja.
“I had not time to count them; all that I know is that they must be near.”
And crossing the camp he proceeded to where Don Estevan—after having attended to the most important precautions—stood at the door of his tent waiting for him. As Cuchillo went on without replying to any of the questions with which he was assailed, a man advanced with a lighted torch in his hand to set fire to the fagots piled in various places, but Don Estevan cried—
“Not yet; it is, perhaps, a false alarm, and until we have the certainty of attack we must not light up the camp to betray ourselves.”