“You spoke truth,” replied Pepé. “What signifies human destiny; for twenty years past you say you have owed your life to the absence of a tree?”
“It is true,” affirmed Cuchillo, in an absent tone, “for a long time I preferred shrubs, but lately I have become reconciled to large trees.”
“Indeed!”
“And yet it is still one of my favourite maxims, that a wise man must pass over many little inconveniences.”
“True. And now I think of it,” added Pepé, carelessly, “there are on the summit of yonder steep hill, two magnificent pine trees which project over the abyss, and which, twenty years ago, might have caused you very serious anxiety.”
“I do not deny it; but at present I am as easy about it as if they were only cactus plants.”
“Indeed!”
“Indeed!” repeated Cuchillo, with some impatience. “So then, you did me the honour to speak of me, and to what purpose?”
“Oh! a simple remark. My two companions and myself had some reasons for suspecting that amongst these mountains a certain valley of gold was to be found; but nevertheless, it was only after long seeking that we found it. You also know it now, and even better than ourselves, since unhesitatingly, and without losing an instant, you have appropriated to yourself, between what you call a heap and what you have already collected, carramba—enough to build a church to your patron saint.”
Cuchillo, at the recollection of the imprudence he had been guilty of, and at this indirect attack, felt his legs give way under him.