hich whirled clouds of sand, a burnt and sterile
ground, everywhere silence, everywhere solitude. At some distance off
two men on horseback were seen advancing towards the rock, but at the
distance at which they were, it was impossible to distinguish either
their dress or the colour of their skin.

"Must we sustain a new siege here?" said Bois-Rose. "Are these white
men or Indians?"

"White or red, they are enemies," said Pepe.

While the three friends bent down, so as not to be observed, a man,
until then invisible, cautiously entered the lake. He lifted with care
the floating leaves of the water lilies, and forming of them a shelter
over its head, remained motionless, and the surface of the lake soon
after appeared as if undisturbed. This man was Cuchillo, the jackal,
who, led by his evil destiny, had ventured to hunt on the ground of the
lion.

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

THE PUNISHMENT OF TANTALUS.

Cuchillo, after reaching the mountains, had halted. He had not
forgotten the appearance of the place, and his heart trembled with fear
and joy. After a few minutes he looked around him more calmly. It was
then dark, and when he arrived at the rock, the damp vapours from the
lake enveloped with a thick veil both the valley and the tomb. The
sound of the waterfall put an end to his uncertainties; he remembered
that it fell into a gulf close by the golden placer.

He had dismounted his horse, and sat down to wait for daylight; but
scarcely had he done so when he bounded up as though bitten by a
serpent. A fatal chance had led him to sit down on the very spot where
he had struck Marcos Arellanos, and quick as lightning, every detail of
the mortal struggle passed through his mind. However this feeling of
terror was of short duration.

In that part of America, superstition has not established its empire as
in the old countries of Europe, where the evening mists give to objects
fantastic aspects, and tend naturally to reflections upon the
supernatural. From this arises the sombre poesy of the north, which has
peopled our land with ghosts and phantoms. In the American solitude
people fear the living more than the dead, and Cuchillo had too much to
fear from men to waste many thoughts upon the ghost of Arellanos, and he
had soon quite banished the thought from his mind.

Although he felt nearly certain that no one had seen him leave the camp,
or had followed him, he resolved to climb the rock and look out ove