“He was, as you say, a man of noble courage, but with a heart of stone. May God save his soul!”
A convulsive grief agitated Don Fabian’s breast. Diaz continued the Duke de Armada’s funeral oration.
“He and I had dreamed of the freedom of a noble province and days of splendour. Neither he, nor I, nor others, will ever now behold them shine. Ah! why was not I killed instead of him? No one would have known that I had ceased, to exist, and one champion less would not have compromised the cause we served; but the death of our chief ruins it forever. The treasure which is said to be accumulated here might have aided us in restoring Sonora; for you do not, perhaps, know that near to this spot—”
“We know it,” interrupted Fabian.
“Well,” continued Diaz, “I will think no more about this immense treasure. I have always preferred the life of an Indian, killed by my own hands, to a sack of gold dust.”
This common feeling of hatred towards the Indians still further added to the sympathy which Bois-Rose had felt for the disinterestedness and courage shown by Diaz.
“We have failed at the onset,” continued Diaz, in a tone of great bitterness, “and all this through the fault of a traitor whom I wish to deliver up to your justice—not because he deceived us, but because he has destroyed the instrument which God was willing to grant, in order to make my country a powerful kingdom.”
“What do you say?” cried Fabian; “is it Cuchillo of whom you speak?”
“The traitor who twice attempted your life—the first time at the Hacienda del Venado, the second in the neighbouring forest—is the one who conducted us to this valley of gold.”
“It was then Cuchillo who told you the secret. I was almost sure of it—but are you also certain?”