He approached the Duke de Armada, knelt down before him, took his hand and raised it to his lips.
“I will pray for the salvation of your soul,” said he in a low tone. “Do you release me from my oath?”
“Yes,” replied Don Antonio, in a firm voice; “go, and may God bless you for your fidelity!”
The noble adventurer retired in silence.
His horse had remained at some short distance.
Diaz soon reached it, and holding the bridle in his hands, walked slowly towards the spot where the river forked.
In the mean time the sun followed its eternal course – the shadows gradually contracted – the black vultures flew in circles above the heads of the four actors in the terrible drama the last scene of which was now drawing near. From the depths of the Misty Mountains, shrouded in vapour, might be heard, at intervals, dull rumbling sounds, like thunder, followed by distant explosions.
Pale, but resigned, the unfortunate Count de Mediana remained standing. Buried in deep reverie, he did not appear to notice the continually decreasing shadow.
All exterior objects vanished from his sight. His thoughts were divided between the past which no longer concerned him, and the future he was about to enter.
However, pride still struggled within him, and he maintained an obstinate silence.
“My Lord Count,” said Fabian, who was willing to try a last chance, “in five minutes the poignard will have ceased to cast a shadow.”
“I have nothing to say of the past,” replied Don Antonio. “I must now think only of the future of my race. Do not, therefore, misjudge the sense of the words I am about to speak. Whatever may be the form in which it may come, death has no power to terrify me.”
“I am listening,” said Fabian gently.
“You are very young, Fabian,” continued Mediana, “and the thought of the blood that has been shed will therefore be so much the longer a burthen to you.”
Fabian’s countenance revealed the anguish of his feelings.
“Why then so soon pollute a life which is scarcely begun? Why refuse to follow a course which the unlooked-for favour of Providence opens to you? Here you are poor, and without connections. God restores you to your family, and, at the same moment, confers wealth upon you. The inheritance of your race has not been squandered by me. I have for twenty years borne the name of Mediana, at the head of the Spanish nobles, and I am ready to restore it to you with all the honours I have conferred upon it. Accept then a fortune which I joyfully restore to you, for the isolation of my life is burthensome to me; but do not purchase it by a crime, for which an imaginary act of justice cannot absolve you, and which you will repent to your last hour.”
Fabian replied, “A judge who presides at his tribunal must not listen to the voice of nature. Supported by his conscience, and the service he renders to society, he may pity the criminal, though his duty requires that he shall condemn him. In this solitude, these two men and myself represent human justice. Refute the crime attributed to you, Don Antonio, and I shall be the happiest of us two; for though I shudder to accuse you, I cannot escape the fatal mission which heaven has imposed upon me.”
“Consider well, Fabian, and remember that it not pardon, but oblivion, for which I sue. Thanks to that oblivion, it rests with you to become, in my adopted son, the princely heir of the house of Mediana. After my death my title will expire.”
As he listened to these words the young man became deadly pale; but spurning in his heart the temptation held out to him, Fabian closed his ears to that voice which offered him so large a share of the riches of this world, as though he had but heard the light whispers of the breeze amid the foliage of the trees.
“Oh, Count Mediana, why did you kill my mother?” cried Fabian, covering his face with his hands; then, glancing towards the poignard planted in the sand, “My lord of Armada,” he added, solemnly, “the poignard is without a shadow!”
Don Antonio trembled in spite of himself, as he then recalled the prophetic threat, which twenty years before the Countess de Mediana had compelled him to hear.
“Perhaps,” she had said, “the God whom you blaspheme will ordain, that in the heart of a desert, untrodden by the foot of man, you shall find an accuser, a witness, a judge, and an executioner.”
Accuser, witness, and judge were all before him, but who was to be the executioner? However, nothing was wanting for the accomplishment of the dreadful prophecy.
A noise of branches, suddenly torn apart, was heard at this moment.
The moment after, a man emerged from the brushwood, his habiliments dripping with water and soiled with mud. It was Cuchillo.
The bandit advanced with an air of imperturbable coolness, though he appeared to limp slightly.
Not one of the four men, so deeply absorbed in their own terrible reflections, showed any astonishment at his presence.
“Carramba! you expected me then?” he cried; “and yet I persisted in prolonging the most disagreeable bath I have ever taken, for fear of causing you all a surprise, for which my self-love might have suffered,” (Cuchillo did not allude to his excursion in the mountains); “but the water of this lake is so icy that rather than perish with cold, I would have run a greater risk than meeting with old friends.”
“Added to this I felt a wound in my leg reopen. It was received some time since, in fact, long ago, in my youth.
“Señor Don Estevan, Don Tiburcio, I am your very humble servant.”
A profound silence succeeded these words. Cuchillo began to feel that he was acting the part of the hare, who takes refuge in the teeth of the hounds; but he endeavoured by a great show of assurance to make the best of a position which was more than precarious.
The old hunter alone glanced towards Fabian, as though to ask what motive this man, with his impudent and sinister manner, and his beard covered with greenish mud, could offer for thus intruding himself upon them.
“It is Cuchillo,” said Fabian, answering Bois-Rose’s look.
“Cuchillo, your unworthy servant,” continued the bandit, “who has been a witness to your prowess, most worthy hunter of tigers. Decidedly,” thought Cuchillo, “my presence, is not so obnoxious to them as I should have supposed.”
Then feeling his assurance redoubled at the reception he had met with, which though cold and silent as that with which every new-comer is received in the house of death, still gave him courage to say, observing the severe expression on every face:
“Pardon me, gentlemen! I observe you have business in hand, and I am perhaps intruding; I will retire. There are moments when one does not like to be disturbed: I know it by experience.”
Saying these words, Cuchillo showed his intention of crossing a second time the green inclosure of the valley of gold, when Bois-Rose’s rough voice arrested him.
“Stay here, as you value the salvation of your soul, master Cuchillo,” said the hunter.
“The giant may have heard of my intellectual resources,” thought Cuchillo. “They have need of me. After all, I would rather go shares with them than get nothing; but without doubt this Golden Valley is bewitched. You allow, master hunter,” he continued, addressing the Canadian, and feigning a surprise he did not feel at the aspect of his chief, “I have a – ”
An imperious gesture from Fabian cut short Cuchillo’s demand.
“Silence!” he said, “do not distract the last thought of a Christian who is about to die.”
We have said that a poignard planted in the ground no longer cast a shadow.
“My lord of Mediana,” added Fabian, “I ask you once again, by the name we bear, by your honour, and the salvation of your soul, are you innocent of my mother’s murder?”
To this lofty interrogation, Don Antonio replied without relaxing his haughty demeanour —
“I have nothing to say, to my peers alone I allow the right of judgment. Let my fate and yours be accomplished.”
“God sees and hears me,” said Fabian. Then taking Cuchillo aside: “A solemn sentence has been passed upon this man,” said he to him. “We, as the instruments of human justice in this desert, command you to be his executioner. The treasures contained in this valley will remunerate you for undertaking this terrible duty. May you never commit a more iniquitous act!”
“One cannot live through forty years without having a few little peccadilloes on one’s conscience, Don Tiburcio. However, I shall not the less object to being an executioner; and I am proud to know that my talents are estimated at their real value. You promise, then, that all the gold of this valley shall be mine?”
“All – without excepting the smallest particle.”
“Carramba! notwithstanding my well-known scruples, it is a good price, therefore I shall not hesitate; and if at the same time there is any other little favour you require of me, do not distress yourself – it shall be done cheaply.”
That which has been previously said explains Cuchillo’s unexpected appearance.
The outlaw, concealed upon the borders of the neighbouring lake, had escaped through the prologue which preceded the fearful drama in which he was about to perform a part. Taking all things into consideration, he saw that matters were turning out better than he had expected.
However he could not disguise from himself the fact that there was a certain amount of danger in his becoming the executioner of a man who was aware of all his crimes, and who could, by a single word, surrender him him to the implacable justice enforced in these solitudes.
He was aware that to gain the promised recompense, and to prevent Don Antonio from speaking, it would be necessary first to deceive him, and he found means to whisper in the ear of the prisoner —
“Fear nothing – I am on your side.”
The spectators of this terrible scene maintained a profound silence, under a feeling of awe experienced by each of them.
A deep dejection of spirit had, in Don Fabian’s case, succeeded the energetic exercise of his will, and his face, bowed towards the earth, was as pale and as livid as that of the man upon whom he had pronounced sentence of death.
Bois-Rose – whom the frequent dangers which belonged to the life of a sailor and a hunter, had rendered callous to the physical horror with which one man looks upon the destruction of his fellow – appeared completely absorbed in the contemplations of this young man, whom he loved as a son, and whose dejected attitude showed the depth of his grief.
Pepé, on his side, endeavoured to conceal under an impenetrable mask the tumultuous feeling resulting from his now satisfied vengeance. He, as well as his two companions, remained silent.
Cuchillo alone – whose sanguinary and vindictive nature would have led him to accept gratuitously the odious office of executor – could scarcely conceal his delight at the thoughts of the enormous sum he was to receive for the wicked service.
But in this case, for once in his life, Cuchillo was to assist in an apparently legal proceeding.
“Carramba!” he ejaculated, taking Pepé’s carbine from him, and at the same time making a sign to Don Antonio; “this is an affair for which even the judge of Arispe himself would be sorry to grant me absolution.”
He advanced towards Don Antonio.
Pale, but with flashing eyes; uncertain whether in Cuchillo he beheld a saviour or an executioner, Don Estevan did not stir.
“It was foretold that I should die in a desert; I am, what you are pleased to call, convicted and condemned. God has reserved forme the infinite disgrace of dying by the hand of this man. I forgive you, Fabian; but may not this bandit prove as fatal to your life, as he will be to that of your father’s brother, as he was – ”
A cry from Cuchillo – a cry of alarm, here interrupted the Duke de Armada.
“To arms! To arms! yonder come the Indians!” cried he.
Fabian, Bois-Rose, and Pepé rushed to seize their rifles.
Cuchillo took advantage of this short instant, and sprang towards Don Antonio. The latter with his neck stretched forward, was also examining the wide extent of the plain, when Cuchillo twice plunged the poignard into his throat.
The unfortunate Mediana fell to the ground, vomiting forth torrents of blood.
A smile relaxed Cuchillo’s lips: Don Antonio had carried out of the world the secret which he dreaded.
Chapter Fifty One
The Judgment of God
An instant of stupor succeeded to the murder so suddenly accomplished. Don Antonio did not stir; Fabian seemed to forget that the bandit had only hastened the execution of the sentence which he himself had pronounced.
“Wretch!” cried he, rushing towards Cuchillo, with the barrel of his carbine in his hand, as though he did not deign to raise its butt against the executioner.
“There, there!” said Cuchillo, drawing back, whilst Pepé, more ready to acquit Don Antonio’s murderer, interposed between them; “you are as quick and passionate as a fighting-cock, and ready every instant to sport your horns, like a young 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, Pepé, 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 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 Pepé 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 serapé 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 roll himself in these floods of gold.
Soon, however, restored to calmer thoughts, he spread his mantle on the sand; and as he saw the impossibility of carrying away all the riches exposed to his view, he cast around him a glance of observation.
In the meantime, Diaz, seated at some distance on the plain, had not lost a single detail of this melancholy scene.
He had seen Cuchillo suddenly appear, he had imagined the part he would be required to fulfil, he heard the bandit’s cry of false alarm, and even the bloody catastrophe of the drama had not been unseen by him.
Until then he had remained motionless in his place, mourning over the death of his chief, and the hopes which that death had destroyed.
Cuchillo had disappeared from their sight, when the three hunters saw Diaz rise and approach them.
He advanced with slow steps, like the justice of God, whose instrument he was about to become.
His arm was passed through his horse’s bridle; and his face, clouded by grief, was turned downwards.
The adventurer cast a look full of sadness upon the Duke de Armada lying in his blood; death had not effaced from that countenance its look of unalterable pride.
“I do not blame you,” said he; “in your place I should have done the same thing. How much Indian blood have I also not spilt to satisfy my vengeance!”
“It is holy bread,” interrupted Bois-Rose, passing his hand through his thick grey hair, and directing a sympathetic glance toward the adventurer. “Pepé and I can say that, for our part – ”
“I do not blame you, friends, but I grieve because I have seen this man, of such noble courage, fall almost before my eyes; a man who held in his hand the destiny of Sonora. I grieve that the glory of my country expires with him.”
“He was, as you say, a man of noble courage, but with a heart of stone. May God save his soul!”
A convulsive grief agitated Don Fabian’s breast. Diaz continued the Duke de Armada’s funeral oration.
“He and I had dreamed of the freedom of a noble province and days of splendour. Neither he, nor I, nor others, will ever now behold them shine. Ah! why was not I killed instead of him? No one would have known that I had ceased, to exist, and one champion less would not have compromised the cause we served; but the death of our chief ruins it forever. The treasure which is said to be accumulated here might have aided us in restoring Sonora; for you do not, perhaps, know that near to this spot – ”
“We know it,” interrupted Fabian.
“Well,” continued Diaz, “I will think no more about this immense treasure. I have always preferred the life of an Indian, killed by my own hands, to a sack of gold dust.”
This common feeling of hatred towards the Indians still further added to the sympathy which Bois-Rose had felt for the disinterestedness and courage shown by Diaz.
“We have failed at the onset,” continued Diaz, in a tone of great bitterness, “and all this through the fault of a traitor whom I wish to deliver up to your justice – not because he deceived us, but because he has destroyed the instrument which God was willing to grant, in order to make my country a powerful kingdom.”
“What do you say?” cried Fabian; “is it Cuchillo of whom you speak?”
“The traitor who twice attempted your life – the first time at the Hacienda del Venado, the second in the neighbouring forest – is the one who conducted us to this valley of gold.”
“It was then Cuchillo who told you the secret. I was almost sure of it – but are you also certain?”
“As certain as I am that I shall one day appear before God. Poor Don Estevan related to me how the existence and position of the treasure became known to Cuchillo; it was in assassinating his associate who had first discovered it.
“And now if you decide that this man who has twice attempted your life deserves exemplary punishment, you have only to determine upon it.”
As he finished these words, Pedro Diaz tightened his horse’s girths, and prepared to depart.
“One word more!” cried Fabian, “has Cuchillo long possessed this grey horse, which, as you may be aware, has a habit of stumbling?”
“More than two years, from what I have heard.”
This last scene had escaped the bandit’s observation, the thicket of cotton-trees concealing it from his sight; besides, he was too much absorbed in the contemplation of his treasures to turn his eyes away from them.
Seated upon the sand, he was crouched down amidst the innumerable pieces of gold which surrounded him, and he had already begun to pile up upon his serapé all those he had chosen, when Diaz finished his terrible revelation.
“Ah! it is a fearful and fatal day,” said Fabian, in whose mind the latter part of this revelation left no room for doubt. “What ought I do with this man? You, who both know what he has done with my adopted father, Pepé – Bois-Rose – advise me, for my strength and resolution are coming to an end. I have experienced too many emotions for one day.”
“Does the vile wretch, who cut your father’s throat, deserve more consideration than the noble gentleman, who murdered your mother, my son?” answered the Canadian, resolutely.
“Whether it be your adopted father or any others who have been his victims, this brigand is worthy of death,” added Diaz, as he mounted upon his saddle, “and I abandon him to your justice.”
“It is with regret that I see you depart,” said Bois-Rose to the adventurer, “a man who like yourself is a bitter enemy to the Indians, would have been a companion whose society I should have appreciated.”
“My duty recalls me to the camp, which I quitted under the influence of Don Estevan’s unhappy star,” replied the adventurer, “but there are two things I shall never forget; they are, the conduct of generous enemies; and the oath I have taken never to reveal to a living creature the existence of this Golden Valley.”
As he finished these words, the loyal Diaz quickly withdrew, reflecting upon the means of reconciling his respect for his word, with the care and safety of the expedition entrusted to him by its leader, previous to his death.
The three friends speedily lost sight of him.
The sun shone out, and, glancing down from the Golden Valley, discovered Cuchillo, greedily bending over his treasures, and the three hunters holding council amongst themselves respecting him.
Fabian had listened in silence to Bois-Rose’s advice, as well as that given by Diaz previous to his departure; and he only waited the counsel of the old carabinier.
“You have taken,” said the latter, in his turn, “a vow, from which nothing ought to release you; the wife of Arellanos received it from you on her death-bed; you have her husband’s murderer in your power; there is nothing here to deny it.”
Then, observing a look of anxious indecision in Fabian’s countenance, he added, with that bitter irony which formed a part of his character; “But after all, if this duty is so repugnant to you, I shall undertake it; for not having the least ill will against Cuchillo, I can bang him without a scruple. You will see, Fabian, that the knave will not testify any surprise at what I am going to tell him. Fellows who have such a face as Cuchillo’s expect to be hung every day.”
As he concluded this judicious reflection, Pepé approached the green hedge, which separated them from the outlaw.
The latter, unconscious of all that had taken place around him – dazzled, blinded, by the golden rays, which reflected the sun’s light over the surface of the valley – had heard and seen nothing.
With fingers doubled up, he was busied rummaging amongst the sand with the eagerness of a famished jackal disinterring a corpse.
“Master Cuchillo! a word, if you please,” cried Pepé, drawing aside the branches of the cotton shrubs; “Master Cuchillo!”
But Cuchillo did not hear.
It was only when he had been called three times that he turned around, and discovered his excited countenance to the carabinier – after having, by a spontaneous movement of suspicion, thrown a corner of his mantle over the gold he had collected.
“Master Cuchillo,” resumed Pepé, “I heard you a little while ago give utterance to a philosophical maxim, which gave me the highest opinion of your character.”
“Come!” said Cuchillo to himself, wiping the sweat from his forehead, “here is someone else who requires my services. These gentry are becoming imprudent, but, por Dios! they pay handsomely.”
Then aloud:
“A philosophical maxim?” said he, throwing away disdainfully, a handful of sand, the contents of which would elsewhere have rejoiced a gold-seeker. “What is it? I utter many, and of the best kind; philosophy is my strong point.”
Pepé, on one side of the hedge, resting upon his rifle, in a superb attitude of nonchalance, and the most imperturbable sangfroid, and Cuchillo, on the other side, with his head stretched across the green inclosure of the little valley, looked very much like two country neighbours, for the moment chatting familiarly together.
No one, on seeing them thus, would have suspected the terrible catastrophe which was to follow this pacific intercourse. The countenance of the ex-carabinier, only exhibited a gracious smile.
“You spoke truth,” replied Pepé. “What signifies human destiny; for twenty years past you say you have owed your life to the absence of a tree?”
“It is true,” affirmed Cuchillo, in an absent tone, “for a long time I preferred shrubs, but lately I have become reconciled to large trees.”
“Indeed!”
“And yet it is still one of my favourite maxims, that a wise man must pass over many little inconveniences.”
“True. And now I think of it,” added Pepé, carelessly, “there are on the summit of yonder steep hill, two magnificent pine trees which project over the abyss, and which, twenty years ago, might have caused you very serious anxiety.”
“I do not deny it; but at present I am as easy about it as if they were only cactus plants.”
“Indeed!”
“Indeed!” repeated Cuchillo, with some impatience. “So then, you did me the honour to speak of me, and to what purpose?”
“Oh! a simple remark. My two companions and myself had some reasons for suspecting that amongst these mountains a certain valley of gold was to be found; but nevertheless, it was only after long seeking that we found it. You also know it now, and even better than ourselves, since unhesitatingly, and without losing an instant, you have appropriated to yourself, between what you call a heap and what you have already collected, carramba – enough to build a church to your patron saint.”
Cuchillo, at the recollection of the imprudence he had been guilty of, and at this indirect attack, felt his legs give way under him.
“It is certainly my intention not to employ this gold to any other purpose than a godly one,” said he, concealing his anguish as well as he could. “As to the knowledge of this wonderful valley, it is to – it is to chance that I owe it.”
“Chance always comes to the assistance of virtue,” replied Pepé, coldly. “Well, in your place, I should not, nevertheless, be without anxiety touching the vicinity of those two pine trees.”
“What do you mean?” cried Cuchillo, turning pale.
“Nothing – unless this may prove to you one of those trifling inconveniences, about which you just now said a man should not trouble himself. Por Dios! you have enough booty to render a king jealous.”
“But I acquired this gold legitimately – I committed no murder to obtain it. What I did was not worthless. The devil! I am not in the habit of killing for nothing,” cried Cuchillo, exasperated, and who, mistaking the carabinier’s intentions, saw only in his alarming innuendoes regret at his defrauded cupidity.
Like the sailor, who, overtaken by a storm, throws a part of his cargo overboard to save the rest, Cuchillo resolved with a sigh, to shun, by means of a sacrifice, the danger with which he was threatened.
“I again repeat to you,” said he, in a low voice, “chance alone gave me a knowledge of this treasure; but I don’t wish to be selfish. It is my intention to give you a share. Listen,” he continued, “there is in a certain place, a block of gold of inestimable value; honest fellows should understand one another, and this block shall be yours. Ah! your share will be better than mine.”
“I hope so,” said Pepé; “and in what place have you reserved me my portion?”
“Up yonder!” said Cuchillo, indicating the summit of the pyramid.