The impetuous young man listened with a changing countenance to the words uttered by the assassin of his mother, and whom he even now suspected was the murderer of his adopted father.
Truly it is the heroism of moderation, at which those who do not know the slight value attached to human life in the deserts, cannot be sufficiently astonished—for here law cannot touch the offender—but the short space of time which had elapsed since Fabian joined Bois-Rose was sufficient, under the gentle influence of the old hunter, to calm his feelings immeasurably.
He was no longer the young man whose fiery passions were the instruments of a vengeance to which he yielded blindly. He had learnt that power should go hand in hand with justice, and may often be combined with mercy.
This was the secret of a moderation, hitherto so opposed to his temperament. It was not, however, difficult to trace, in the changing expression of his countenance, the efforts he had been compelled to make to impose a restraint upon his anger.
On his side, the Spanish noble concealed his passion under the mask of silence.
“So then,” resumed Fabian, “you know nothing more of me? You are not acquainted either with my name or rank? I am nothing more to you than what I seem?”
“An assassin, perhaps!” replied Mediana, turning his back to Fabian to show that he did not wish to reply to his question.
During the dialogue which had taken place between these two men of the same blood, and of equally unconquerable nature, the wood-rangers had remained at some distance.
“Approach,” said Fabian to the ex-carabinier, “and say,” added he, with forced calmness, “what you know of me to this man whose lips have dared to apply to me a name which he only deserves.”
If any doubt could still have remained upon Don Estevan’s mind with regard to the intentions of those into whose hands he had fallen, that doubt must have disappeared when he beheld the gloomy air with which Pepé came forward in obedience to Fabian’s command.