He could no longer disguise from himself the fate that awaited him.
The bandage which covered his eyes fell suddenly; and to the flattering delusions with which he had deceived himself succeeded a formidable reality.
“Marcos Arellanos!” he stammered out in a weak voice, “who told you that? I did not kill him!”
Fabian smiled bitterly.
“Who tells the shepherd,” he cried, “where the den of the jaguar is to be found that devours his sheep?
“Who tells the vaquero where the horse that he pursues has taken refuge?
“To the Indian, the enemy he seeks?
“To the gold-seeker the ore, concealed by God?
“The surface of the lake only does not preserve the trace of the bird which flies over its waters, nor the form of the cloud which it reflects; but the earth, with its herbs and mosses, reveals to us sons of the desert, the print of the jaguar’s foot as well as the horse’s hoof and the Indian’s track; do you not know it, even as I do?”
“I did not kill Arellanos,” repeated the assassin.