Pepé kept silence, but at the name of Don Antonio, hatred shone also in his glance. He raised his head, and his eye seemed to measure the distance between him and the object of his vengeance, but even the long rifle of Bois-Rose could scarcely reach them at such a range.
“Do not rise up, Pepé!” cautioned the Canadian; “you will be seen.”
“Do you observe any others behind?” inquired Fabian.
“No one; from the point where the river divides to this place I see no living being; if,” added he, after an instant’s pause, “that black mass that I see floating on the river be only the trunk of a tree—but at any rate it is floating away from us.”
“Never mind that,” said Fabian, “describe to me the man who accompanies Don Antonio; perhaps I shall recognise him.”
“He is tall and straight as a cane; and what a beautiful horse he rides!”
“A bay horse? and has he gold lace on his hat, and a fine face?”
“Precisely.”
“It is Pedro Diaz. Now it would be a cowardice not to show ourselves, when heaven sends us Don Antonio almost alone.”
“Patience,” said Pepé; “I am as interested as you are in not letting him escape, but haste may ruin all. When one has waited for twenty years, one may easily wait a few minutes longer. Are you sure they are alone, Bois-Rose?”