lone; his horse in its impetuous
course made the sand fly under his feet, and the rider, who was no other
than Cuchillo, showed symptoms on his sinister countenance of some
secret terror. His flight might not have been unobserved even in the
tumult of action, or some of the Indians might have noticed his
desertion, and hence his fears. But Cuchillo was not a man to undertake
a bold stroke without calculating the chances. As a hunter wishing to
take the lion's whelps, throws him some bait to distract his attention,
so Cuchillo had delivered to the lords of the desert his companions as a
prey. He had calculated that the struggle would last a great part of
the night, and that conquered or conquering, the adventurers would not
dare, during the following day, to leave their intrenchments. He would
therefore have long hours before him in which to seize on some of the
treasures of the Golden Valley, with which he would afterwards return to
the protection of his companions, and when they all reached the place he
could still claim his share as soldier and as guide. Pretexts would not
fail him for this second absence, but he had forgotten to calculate on
Don Estevan's suspicions concerning him. To conclude his bargain with
him he had been forced to give such a precise account of the situation
of the valley that Don Estevan could scarcely miss the right road.
After Cuchillo, followed by his horse, had glided out from the camp he
had ridden straight towards the mountains, and cupidity, the most
blinding of passions, had closed his eyes to the danger of his plan.

His heart palpitating with alternate hopes and fears, he had advanced
rapidly, and only stopped occasionally to listen to the vague murmurs of
the desert. Then recognising the groundlessness of his apprehensions,
he had continued his road with renewed ardour.

Sometimes also the aspect of the places he had seen before, awakened
gloomy souvenirs. On that hillock, he had rested with Marcos Arellanos;
that nopal had furnished them with refreshing fruit; they had both
contemplated with mysterious terror the strange aspect of the Misty
Mountains, and his horse in its rapid course carried the murderer to the
spot where his victim had fallen beneath his blows! Then to the fear of
enemies succeeded that inspired by conscience, which while it often
sleeps by day, awakes and resumes its empire during the night. The
bushes--the thorny nopals--rose before him like accusing