he had ridden over on that
battle-horse whose bones were whitening by his tomb. Birds of prey flew
over his grave, uttering their shrill cries, as if they would awaken him
who slept there forever, and whose cold hand would no longer prepare for
them their bloody feasts.

A few minutes later the horizon became tinted with pale rose-coloured
clouds, and soon after, like the first spark of a fire, a ray of
sunlight struck like a golden arrow on the thick fog, and floods of
light inundated the depths of the valley. Day had come in all its
glory, but wreaths of vapour still hung capriciously on the leaves of
the trees or clung around the trunks. Soon were displayed wild
precipices, with falls of water foaming down their sides; then deep
defiles, at the entrance of which fantastic offerings of Indian
superstition were suspended.

Above the tomb of the Indian chief rose the spray of the cascade, in
which was reflected the colours of the rainbow; and lastly, a valley was
visible, closed on one side by peaked rocks, from which hung long
draperies of verdure, and on the other by a lake, whose waters were
half-hidden by the aquatic plants on its surface: this was the Golden
Valley.

At the first glance the whole scene only offered the sombre features of
a wild nature; but the scrutinising eye would soon have divined the
treasures concealed there. Nothing betrayed the presence of living
things in that deserted place, when the three hunters made their
appearance on the spot.

"If the devil has an abode anywhere on the earth," said Pepe, pointing
to the mountains, "it must surely be among those wild denies!

"But if it be true," continued he, "that it is gold which is the cause
of most crimes, it is more probable that the old fellow has chosen the
Golden Valley for his abode, which contains, according to you, Don
Fabian, enough to ruin an entire generation."

"You are right," said Fabian, who looked pale and grave, "it was here
perhaps that the unlucky Marcos Arellanos was assassinated. Ah! if this
place could speak, I should know the name of him whom I have sworn to
pursue: but the wind and the rain have effaced the traces of the victim
as well as those of the murderer."

"Patience, my child!" replied Bois-Rose; "I have never in the course of
a long life known crime to go unpunished. Often we recover the traces
that were believed to have been long effaced, and even solitude
sometimes raises its voice against the guilt