oung bull. The Indians are too busy elsewhere
to trouble themselves about us. It was a stratagem of war, to enable me
more speedily to render you the signal service required of me. Do not
therefore be ungrateful; for, why not admit it? you were just now a
nephew, most unsufferably encumbered with an uncle; you are noble, you
are generous; you would have regretted all your life that you had not
pardoned that uncle? By cutting the matter short for you, I have taken
the remorse upon myself; and so the affair is ended."

"The rascal knows what he is about, undoubtedly," remarked the
ex-carabinier.

"Yes," replied Cuchillo, evidently flattered, "I pride myself upon being
no fool, and upon having some notion of the scruples of conscience. I
have taken your doubts upon mine. When I take a fancy to people, I
sacrifice myself for them. It is a fault of mine. When I saw, Don
Tiburcio, that you had so generously pardoned me the blow--the scratch I
inflicted upon you--I did my best to deserve it: the rest must be
settled between me and my conscience."

"Ah!" sighed Fabian, "I hoped yet to have been able to pardon _him_."

"Why trouble yourself about it?" said the ex-carabinier. "Pardon your
mother's murderer, Don Fabian! it would have been cowardice! To kill a
man who cannot defend himself, is, I grant, almost a crime, even after
five years' imprisonment. Our friend Cuchillo has saved us the
embarrassment of choosing: that is his affair. What do you say,
Bois-Rose?"

"With proofs such as those we possess, the tribunal of a city would have
condemned the assassin to atone for his crime; and Indian justice could
not have done less. It was God's will that you should be spared the
necessity of shedding the blood of a white man. I say as you do, Pepe,
it is Cuchillo's affair."

Fabian inclined his head, without speaking, in acquiescence to the old
hunter's verdict--as though in his own heart he could not determine,
amidst such conflicting thoughts, whether he ought to rejoice, or to
grieve over this unexpected catastrophe.

Nevertheless, a shade of bitter regret overspread his countenance; but
accustomed, as well as his two companions, to scenes of blood, he
assented, though with a sigh, to their inexorable logic.

In the mean time, Cuchillo had regained all his audacity, things were
turning out well for him.

He cast a glance of satisfied hatred upon the corpse of him who could
never more speak, and muttered in