“He is dead, Señor.”
A sigh of grief escaped Don Augustin, and he rested his head upon his hands.
“Who killed him?” he asked.
“I know not, but he is dead.”
“And Pedro Diaz—that man of such noble and disinterested feeling?”
“He, like Don Estevan, is no more of this world.”
“And his friends Cuchillo, Oroche, and Baraja?”
“Dead as well as Pedro Diaz, all dead except—but with your leave, Señor, I shall commence my narrative at an earlier period. It is necessary that you should know all.”
“We shall listen to you patiently.”
“I need not detail,” resumed the narrator, “the dangers of every kind, nor the various combats in which we were engaged since our departure. Headed by a chief who inspired us with boundless confidence, we shared his perils cheerfully.”