In the mean time, Cuchillo had regained all his audacity, things were turning out well for him.
He cast a glance of satisfied hatred upon the corpse of him who could never more speak, and muttered in a low voice:
“Why trouble one’s self about human destiny?—for twenty years past, my life has depended upon nothing more than the absence of a tree.”
Then addressing himself to Fabian:
“It is, then, agreed, that I have rendered you a great service. Ah! Don Tiburcio, you must resolve to remain in my debt. I think generously of furnishing you with the means of discharging it. There is immense wealth yonder; therefore it would not do for you to recall a promise given to him who, for your sake, was not afraid—for the first time, let me tell you—to come to an open rupture with his conscience.”
Cuchillo, who, notwithstanding the promise Fabian had made—to satisfy his cupidity by the possession of the gold,—knew that to make a promise, and to keep one, are two different things. He waited the reply with anxiety.
“It is true; the price of blood is yours,” said Fabian to the bandit.
Cuchillo assumed an indignant air.
“Well, you will be magnificently recompensed,” continued the young man, contemptuously; “but it shall never be said that I shared it with you:—the gold of this place is yours.”
“All?” cried Cuchillo, who could not believe his ears.