This was true. The Indian, having seen at a glance how matters stood, had gone up to the hut without speaking. He now returned with a bowl of boiled maize, a bunch of bananas, and a jar of water.
While his friend was busy with these, he asked a few questions, which Pedro answered briefly.
From the expression of the Indian’s face, Lawrence gathered that these replies caused him some anxiety. As the guide’s appetite became gradually appeased his loquacity increased, but he made few remarks to Lawrence until the meal was finished. Then, turning to him with a sigh of contentment, he said—
“I’ve been slightly wounded, senhor, but I doubt not that you can soon put me all right.”
Taking off his poncho as he spoke, and pushing aside his light cotton shirt, he revealed the fact that his left breast was bound with a piece of blood-stained calico.
Lawrence at once examined the wound.
“A slight wound, indeed,” he said, “but vigorously dealt. I can see that,—and you’ve had a narrow escape, too. Half an inch higher up would have been fatal.”
“Yes, it was meant to kill,” was Pedro’s quiet rejoinder; “but, thank God, I had a friend near who meant to save, and he turned the knife aside in time. Sit down now, I’ll tell you how it happened.
“My business required me to visit a certain tribe of Indians at a considerable distance from here, where the country is somewhat disturbed, and the white inhabitants are threatening to cut each other’s throats by way of mending political affairs. They took me for a spy. It is not the first time that I have been taken for a spy, and I suppose it won’t be the last,” continued Pedro, with a grave smile. “Of course I protested my innocence, explained my object, and showed that my visit was one of peace. They would have let me go if an enemy had not been in the camp. You see, Senhor Armstrong, I have many enemies as well as friends everywhere.”
“That is always the case with men who hold decided principles, and try to act up to them with vigour,” returned Lawrence.