enorito_; only a mosquito that took a fancy to stick its
bill into the bridge of my nose. But I've given Master _Zancudo_ his
quietus; and he won't trouble me again."

Though the gaucho thinks he has at last got the clue to what has been
mystifying them, like all skilled tacticians he intends for a time
keeping it to himself. So, saying no more, he leaves his young
companion to return to his slumbers: which the latter soon does.
Himself now more widely awake than ever, he follows up the train of
thought Cypriano had interrupted.

"It's clear that Francia has at length found out our whereabouts. I
wonder he didn't do so long ago; and have often warned the _dueno_ of
the danger we were in. Of course, Naraguana kept him constantly
assured; and with war to the knife between the Tovas and Paraguayans, no
wonder my poor master was too careless and confident. But something has
happened lately to affect their relations. The Indians moving so
mysteriously away from their old place shows it. And these shod-tracks
tell, almost for sure, that some white man has been on a visit to them,
wherever they are now. Just as sure about this white man being an
emissary from El Supremo. And who would his emissary be? Who sent on
such an errand so likely as _him_?"

The emphasis on the "him" points to some one not yet mentioned, but whom
the gaucho has in his mind. Soon, however, he gives the name, saying:

"The scoundrel who bestrode that horse--and a thorough scoundrel too--is
Rufino Valdez. Assassin, besides! It's he who has murdered my master.
I'd lay my life on it."

After arriving at this conclusion, he adds:

"What a pity I didn't think of this before! If but yesterday morning!
He must have passed along the trail going back, and alone? Ah! the
chance I've let escape me! Such an opportunity for settling old scores
with Senor Rufino! Well, he and I may meet yet; and if we do, one of us
will have to stay on the spot where that encounter takes place, or be
carried from it feet foremost. I think I know which would go that way,
and which the other."

Thus predicating, the gaucho pulls his poncho around his shoulders, and
composes himself for sleep; though it is some time before he succeeds in
procuring it.

But Morpheus coming to his aid, proves too many for the passions which
agitate him; and he at length sinks into a profound slumber, not broken
till the curassows send up their shrill cries--as the crowing of
Cha