Pepé turned away his head, and for a while stood as if attentively observing the mists as they floated above the crests of the mountains.
Bois-Rose reclined in his usual attitude of repose, while his eyes, expressive of deep anxiety, were centred upon the young man, and his noble physiognomy seemed to reflect the clouds which gathered upon the brow of his beloved protégé.
Meanwhile Diaz had rejoined the prostrate captive.
Who can guess how many conflicting thoughts crowded upon the mind of the Spanish nobleman, as he lay upon the ground? His expression retained as much pride as when in his more prosperous days he had imagined the possibility of conquering, and bestowing, a throne upon the deposed heir of the Spanish monarchy. At the sight of Diaz, who, he believed had abandoned his cause, an expression of deep melancholy came over his countenance.
“Do you come as an enemy, or a friend, Diaz?” said he. “Are you one of those who take a secret pleasure in contemplating the humiliation of the man whom, in the days of his prosperity, you, like others, would have flattered?”
“I am one of those who flatter only the fallen,” replied Diaz, “and who are not offended by the bitterness of speech which is dictated by great misfortune.”
As he uttered these words, which were confirmed by the dejection of his manner, Diaz hastened to remove the cords with which the captive’s arms were bound.
“I have given my word that you will not endeavour to escape the fate, whatever it may be, which awaits you at the hands of these men, into whose power we have fallen by an unlucky chance. I believe you have not even thought of flight.”
“And you are right, Diaz,” replied Don Estevan; “but can you guess what fate these fellows have reserved for me?”
“They talk of a murder to be avenged, of an accusation, and a judgment.”