Well, that was a hope. I did not know exactly how matters stood between them and the _Lugareños_. There was no love lost. A fight was likely; but, even if no actual collision took place, they would be sure to visit the camp above in no very friendly spirit; a chance might offer to make our position known to these men, who had no reason to hate either me or Castro--and would not be afraid of thwarting the miserable band of ghouls sitting above our grave. How our presence could be made known I was not sure. Perhaps simply by shouting with all our might from the mouth of the cave. We could offer rewards--say who we were, summon them for the service of their own Señorita. But, probably, they had never heard of her. No matter. The news would soon reach the _hacienda_, and Enrico had two hundred slaves at his back. One of us must always remain at the mouth of the cave listening to what went on above. There would be the trampling of horses’ hoofs--quarrelling, no doubt--anyway, much talk--new voices--something to inform us. Only, how soon would they come? They were not likely to be riding where there were no cattle. Had Castro seen any signs of a herd on the uplands near by? His face fell. He had not. There were many _savannas_ within the belt of forests, and the herds might be miles away, stampeded inland by the storm. Sitting down suddenly, as if overcome, he averted his eyes and began to scratch the rock between his legs with the point of his blade. We were all silent. How long could we wait? How long could people live?... I looked at Seraphina. How long could she live?... The thought seared my heart like a hot iron. I wrung my hands stealthily. “Ha! my blade!” muttered Castro. “My sting.... Old scorpion! They did not take my sting away.... Only--bah!” He, a man, had not risen to the fortitude of a venomous creature. He was defeated. He groaned profoundly. Life was too much. It clung to one. A scorpion--an insect--within a ring of flames, would lift its sting and stab venom into its own head. And he--Castro--a man--a man, _por Dios_--had less firmness than a creeping thing. Why--why, did he not stab this dishonoured old heart? “Señorita,” he cried agonizingly, “I swear I did shout to them to fire--so--in to my breast--and then...” Seraphina leaned over him pityingly. “Enough, Castro. One lives because of hope. And grieve not. Thy death would have done no good.”