ng. I can no longer remember it now. Do you not know
something?"

"Not a word."

"Ah! I must do without it," said Benito, whose accustomed stoicism did
not forsake him even at that moment. Then, in a still more feeble
voice, he added, "I have bequeathed to Baraja an old companion--an old
friend; whoever you may be, recommend him to observe my last request, to
love him as I did."

"A brother doubtless."

"Better than that; my horse."

"I shall remind him--do not fear."

"Thank you," said the old man. "As for myself, I have finished my
travels. The Indians did not kill me when they took me prisoner in my
youth--now they have killed me in my old age without taking me prisoner.
That--" he stopped, and then added some words in so low a tone that
they did not reach the ear of the listener. He spoke no more; those
were his last words, for death had abruptly ended his speech.

"He was a brave man--peace be with him!" said the speaker, who then
continued his search, until at last, fatigued by its uselessness, he
returned with an anxious look to his place, and after he had gone the
silence of death seemed to pervade the camp.

Before long, however, a confused noise of voices and horses' feet
indicated the return of the adventurers who had started in pursuit of
the Indians, and by the doubtful light of the half extinct fires, they
entered the camp.

The same man who had been recently inspecting the dead, went out to meet
them. While some of them were dismounting to open a passage through the
barricades, Pedro Diaz advanced towards him, a stream of blood flowing
from a wound in his forehead.

"Senor Don Estevan," said he, "we have not been lucky in our pursuit.
We have but wounded one or two of the Indians, and have lost one of our
own men. However I bring you a prisoner; do you wish to interrogate
him?"

So saying, Diaz detached his lasso from the saddle-bow, and pointed to a
mass held in its noose. It was an Indian, who, pitilessly dragged along
over the sand and stones, had left behind at every step pieces of flesh,
and now scarcely retained any vestige of humanity.

"He was alive when I took him, however," cried Diaz, "but it is just
like these dogs of Indians, he must have died in order not to tell
anything."

Without replying to this ferocious jest, Don Estevan signed to Diaz to
accompany him to a place where they might converse without being
overheard. When the new-comers had lain down and silenc