When the three men had silently pocketed what was allotted to each, Quintana pushed curiously at the dead man with the toe of his shoe. "Peste!" he remarked. "I had place, for security, a ver' large diamon' in my pistol barrel. Now it is within the interior of this gentleman...." He turned to Sanchez: "I sell him to you. One sapphire. Yes?" Sanchez shook his head with a slight sneer: "We wait--if you want your diamond, mon capitaine." Quintana hesitated, then made a grimace and shook his head. "No," he said, "he has swallow. Let him digest. Allons! March!" But after they had gone on--two hundred yards, perhaps--Sanchez stopped. "Well?" inquired Quintana. Then, with a sneer: "I now recollec' that once you have been a butcher in Madrid.... Suit your tas'e, l'ami Sanchez." Sard gazed at Sanchez out of sickened eyes. "You keep away from me until you've washed yourself," he burst out, revolted. "Don't you come near me till you're clean!" Quintana laughed and seated himself. Sanchez, with a hang-dog glance at him, turned and sneaked back on the trail they had traversed. Before he was out of sight Sard saw him fish out a Spanish knife from his hip pocket and unclasp it. Almost nauseated, he turned on Quintana in a sort of frightened fury: "Come on!" he said hoarsely. "I don't want to travel with that man! I won't associate with a ghoul! My God, I'm a respectable business man----" "Yaas," drawled Quintana, "tha's what I saw always myse'f; my frien' Sard he is ver' respec'able, an' I trus' him like I trus' myse'f." However, after a moment, Quintana got up from the fallen tree where he had been seated. As he passed Sard he looked curiously into the man's frightened eyes. There was not the slightest doubt that Sard was a coward. "You shall walk behin' me," remarked Quintana carelessly. "If Sanchez fin' us, it is well; if he shall not, that also is ver' well.... We go, now." * * * * * Sanchez made no effort to find them. They had been gone half an hour before he had finished the business that had turned him back. After that he wandered about hunting for water--a rivulet, a puddle, anything. But the wet ground proved wet only on the surface moss. Sanchez needed more than damp moss for his toilet. Casting about him, hither and thither, for some depression that might indicate a stream, he came to a heavily wooded slope, and descended it. There was a bog at the foot. With his fouled hands he dug out a basin which filled up full of reddish water, discoloured by alders. But the water was redder still when his toilet ended. As he stood there, examining his clothing, and washing what he could of the ominous stains from sleeve and shoe, very far away to the north he heard a curious noise--a far, faint sound such as he never before had heard.