“Of whom do you speak?” I asked.
“Of the Spanish officer. He is digging his spurs into the side of my poor brother, to make him go faster.”
I glanced round, although it was somewhat difficult to do so; and there, sure enough, I saw the captain whom we had met at the posada, seated in a silla, and striking, now with one leg now with the other, at his carrier, occasionally hitting him over the head with the back of his hand. The Indian went on, as far as I could perceive, without complaining; but the captain shouted “Go on—go on faster,” and again dug his spurs into the poor Indian.
Manoel groaned. I could hear him grind his teeth.
“How can you bear it?” he muttered. “The Spaniard may repent his cruelty, though.”
At the foot of the precipice, I should have said, rushed a fierce torrent, roaring and foaming down the side of the mountain. Presently I saw the sillero buttress himself, as it were, firmly with the iron-shod stick with which he supported his steps. Again the Spaniard dug his spurs into his side, asking him what he was doing, and, with a fearful oath, shouted to him to go on. The Indian answered by a vigorous jerk of his back, when I saw the Spaniard shot off, as from a catapult. The next moment he was falling headlong down into the gulf, several hundred feet below us. One fearful shriek rent the air; it was the only sound the wretched man had time to utter before the breath, by the rapidity of his fall, was taken from his body. It was the work of an instant. I shut my eyes. It seemed like some terrible dream. The Spanish captain was gone, though his voice still sounded in my ear.
Manoel stopped. “He has met the fate he deserved,” he said.
“But the sillero will see you, and suppose you will inform against him.”
Manoel answered with a low laugh. “He is my brother, and knows that the secret is safe in my keeping. Can I trust you? No other creature saw what has occurred.”
“God saw him, and he is the avenger of blood,” I answered.