a low voice:

"Why trouble one's self about human destiny?--for twenty years past, my
life has depended upon nothing more than the absence of a tree."

Then addressing himself to Fabian:

"It is, then, agreed, that I have rendered you a great service. Ah!
Don Tiburcio, you must resolve to remain in my debt. I think generously
of furnishing you with the means of discharging it. There is immense
wealth yonder; therefore it would not do for you to recall a promise
given to him who, for your sake, was not afraid--for the first time, let
me tell you--to come to an open rupture with his conscience."

Cuchillo, who, notwithstanding the promise Fabian had made--to satisfy
his cupidity by the possession of the gold,--knew that to make a
promise, and to keep one, are two different things. He waited the reply
with anxiety.

"It is true; the price of blood is yours," said Fabian to the bandit.

Cuchillo assumed an indignant air.

"Well, you will be magnificently recompensed," continued the young man,
contemptuously; "but it shall never be said that I shared it with you:--
the gold of this place is yours."

"All?" cried Cuchillo, who could not believe his ears.

"Have I not said so?"

"You are mad!" exclaimed Pepe and Bois-Rose, simultaneously, "the fellow
would have killed him for nothing!"

"You are a god!" cried Cuchillo; "and you estimate my scruples at their
real value. What! all this gold?"

"All, including the smallest particle," answered Fabian, solemnly: "I
shall have nothing in common with you--not even this gold."

And he made a sign to Cuchillo to leave the ground.

The bandit, instead of passing through the hedge of cotton-trees, took
the road to the Misty Mountains, towards the spot where his horse was
fastened.

A few minutes afterwards he returned with his serape in his hand. He
drew aside the interlacing branches which shut in the valley, and soon
disappeared from Fabian's sight. The sun, in the midst of his course,
poured down a flood of light, causing the gold spread over the surface
of the valley to shoot forth innumerable rays.

A shudder passed though Cuchillo's veins, as he once more beheld it.

His heart beat quick at the sight of this mass of wealth. He resembled
the tiger which falling upon a sheepfold cannot determine which victim
to choose. He encompassed with a haggard glance the treasures spread at
his feet; and little was wanting to induce him, in his transports of
joy, to