"Tell your name, _¡sangre de Dios!_" the voice repeated, passionately, while the dry snap of a pistol being cocked, sounded disagreeably in the monk's ears. "At night there are friends in the desert!" "I am a poor Franciscan monk, proceeding to the hatto del Rincón; and my name is Fray Arsenio Mendoza." A hoarse cry replied to the monk's words--a cry whose meaning he had not the time to conjecture; that is to say, whether it was the result of pleasure or anger; for the horsemen came up with him like lightning, and surrounded him even before he could understand the reason of such a headlong speed to reach him. "Why, señores," he exclaimed, in a voice trembling with emotion, "what is the meaning of this? Have I to do with the _ladrones?_" "Good! Good! Calm yourself, Señor Padre," a rough voice answered, which he fancied he recognised. "We are not _ladrones_, but Spaniards like yourself; and nothing could cause us more pleasure than meeting you at this moment." "I am delighted at what you say to me, caballero. I confess that at first the suddenness of your movements alarmed me; but now I am completely reassured." "All the better," the stranger replied, ironically; "for I want to talk with you." "Talk with me, señor?" he said, with surprise. "The spot and the hour are badly chosen for an interview, I fancy. If you will wait till we reach the hatto, I will place myself at your disposal." "Enough talking. Get off your horse," the stranger observed, roughly; "unless you wish me to drag you off." The monk took a startled glance around him, but the horsemen looked at him savagely, and did not appear disposed to come to his help. Fray Arsenio, through profession and temperament, was quite the opposite of a brave man. The way in which the adventure began was commencing seriously to alarm him. He did not yet know into what hands he had fallen, but everything led him to suppose that these individuals, whoever they might be, were not actuated by kindly feelings towards him. Still any resistance was impossible, and he resigned himself to obey; but it was not without a sigh of regret, intended for the Carib, whose judicious advice he had spurned, that he at length got off his horse, and placed himself in front of his stern questioner. "Light a torch!" the strange horseman said. "I wish this man to recognise me, so that, knowing who I am, he may be aware that he cannot employ any subterfuge with me, and that frankness alone will save him from the fate that menaces him." The monk understood less and less. He really believed himself suffering from an atrocious nightmare. By the horseman's orders, however, one of his suite had lighted a torch of ocote wood. So soon as the flame played over the stranger's feature, and illumined his face, the monk gave a start of surprise, and clasped his hands at the same time as his countenance suddenly reassumed its serenity.