Felipillo arose with a shrug, one of his acquirements from the Spaniards. It enraged the _veedor_. "Then go to the devil!" he piped. "’T is all thou’lt get. Two hundred not enough! Oh, my stars!" Felipillo moved toward the door. Rogelio mopped his neck and jowls vigorously. "Wait, thou varlet!—say two hundred and fifty! Two hundred and fifty, gold!" Felipillo shrugged again, still moving, and the _veedor_ broke into a stream of squeaky oaths. When the youth reached the door he sprang up. "Hold, thou tanned son of Belial! Here! Wait! Three hundred, and not a _maravedi_ more!" "_Buenos noches!_" said Felipillo, with a grin, and went out. Rogelio stood for a second, choking, then rushed after, collared him in the patio, and dragged him back. He thrust him into a chair, hurried to a chest, unlocked it feverishly, whispering curses the while, and drew out a bag. Waddling to the table, he thrust in his hand, withdrew it full of coin, and counted. Another handful counted, and he cried: "There, knave, three hundred! Wilt do it?" Felipillo hesitated, and Rogelio swept them together to return them to the bag. "_Si, Señor_," said the youth. The _veedor_ sank into his chair, scrubbing his reddened countenance, while Felipillo gathered up the gold. "I will go to-morrow, Señor," said the boy. "See thou dost!" returned the _veedor_ with a snarl. "Fool me now, and it will be the worse for thee." He watched the youth to the door, saw it closed, and sprang to his feet, shaking his two fists after him. "Aha! Thou wouldst jew me, thou renegade imp!" he shrilled. "Thou wouldst, thou terra cotta rascal! By the Crucifix, thou shalt hang for thy cunning, so help me Saint Peter! Thou shalt hang for it—hang—hang—_hang_! Three hundred good _castellanos_! Oh, my soul and body!" But three days later a band of half a hundred of the fierce mountain Cañares were nosing for the trail of Cristoval and his _protégée_. *CHAPTER XVII* _*The Fugitives in the Wilderness*_