"Si, but it's no fault of mine. Don Jacinto, how could I dare send more than three mules toppling off the mountain walls? You yourself, maestro, told me to resort to the oleander leaves. Remember, it was in that little talk behind the granite crag? But the oleander leaves did not get rid of the panniers of the three poisoned beasts. These Quixotes fill themselves from those panniers without stint, especially the Frenchman. They will continue to eat for a few days—"
"Hola, the Frenchman has an appetite, eh?"
"Seguramente, si! But when shall I quit the distasteful presence of that terrible Morales?"
"To-morrow at dusk, if you will have it."
"A thousand thanks! But what excuses shall I give, Don Jacinto?"
"Say to them that it is not the will of God that you go farther!"
"Carajo, they will shoot me for it!"
"Que, que! What of that? They will only cheat the Guardia Civil of another black rogue!"
Little comforted by the words of consolation, grumbling and shaking his head morosely, Rafael Perez, alias Aguilino, returned to the bivouac of the nine fantastic ones. The other, who wore the garb of a serrano, hurried away through the foggy darkness, his head bent and brow thoughtful.
The following day, as slowly they climbed one of the three roads which led into the mournful Pass of the Blessed Trinity, a huge boulder came bounding down from the granite heights, viciously leaped by John Fremont Carson's head and, having been deflected by a rock above, missed the last mule by a good dozen yards. The guide Aguilino swore in his chest, and no one heard him.