In the meantime, Diaz, seated at some distance on the plain, had not lost a single detail of this melancholy scene.
He had seen Cuchillo suddenly appear, he had imagined the part he would be required to fulfil, he heard the bandit’s cry of false alarm, and even the bloody catastrophe of the drama had not been unseen by him.
Until then he had remained motionless in his place, mourning over the death of his chief, and the hopes which that death had destroyed.
Cuchillo had disappeared from their sight, when the three hunters saw Diaz rise and approach them.
He advanced with slow steps, like the justice of God, whose instrument he was about to become.
His arm was passed through his horse’s bridle; and his face, clouded by grief, was turned downwards.
The adventurer cast a look full of sadness upon the Duke de Armada lying in his blood; death had not effaced from that countenance its look of unalterable pride.
“I do not blame you,” said he; “in your place I should have done the same thing. How much Indian blood have I also not spilt to satisfy my vengeance!”
“It is holy bread,” interrupted Bois-Rose, passing his hand through his thick grey hair, and directing a sympathetic glance toward the adventurer. “Pepé and I can say that, for our part—”
“I do not blame you, friends, but I grieve because I have seen this man, of such noble courage, fall almost before my eyes; a man who held in his hand the destiny of Sonora. I grieve that the glory of my country expires with him.”