"We shall separate here," he said; "it would not be prudent for the Apaches to go further: my father will continue his journey alone." "I?" the monk said, in surprise; "You are jesting, Chief--I prefer remaining with you." "That cannot be," the Indian said, in a peremptory voice. "Where the deuce would you have me go at this hour, and in this darkness?" "My father will look," the Chief continued, stretching out his arm to the south-west, "does he see that reddish light scarce rising above the horizon?" Fray Antonio looked attentively in the direction indicated. "Yes," he said, presently, "I do see it." "Very good; that flame is produced by a campfire of the Palefaces." "Oh, oh! are you sure of that?" "Yes; but my father must listen; the Palefaces will receive my father kindly." "I understand; then I will tell Tranquil that his friend Blue-fox desires to speak with him, point out where he is, and--" "The magpie is a chattering and brainless bird, which gabbles like an old squaw," the Chief roughly interrupted him; "my father will say nothing." "Oh!" the monk said, in confusion. "My father will be careful to do what I order him, if he does not wish his scalp to dry on the lance of a Chief." Fray Antonio shuddered at this menace. "I swear it, Chief," he said. "A man does not swear," the Chief remarked, brutally; "he says yes or no. When my father reaches the camp of the Palefaces, he will not allude to the Apaches; but when the Pale hunters are asleep, my father will leave the camp and come to warn Blue-fox." "But where shall I find you?" the monk asked, piteously, beginning to perceive that he was destined to act as the spy of the savages in one of their diabolical machinations. "My father need not trouble himself about that, for I shall manage to find him." "Very good." "If my father is faithful, Blue-fox will give him a buffalo skin full of gold dust; if not, he must not hope to escape the Chief; the Apaches are crafty, the scalp of a Chief of prayer will adorn the lance of a Chief; I have spoken." "You have no further orders to give me?" "No." "Good-bye, then." "Till we meet again," the Apache said, with a grin. Fray Antonio made no reply, but uttered a deep sigh, and pushed on in the direction of the camp. The nearer he drew to it, the more difficult did it appear to him to accomplish the sinister mission with which the Apache Chief had intrusted him; twice or thrice the idea of flight crossed his mind, but whither could he go? And then it was probable that the Indians placed but slight confidence in him, and carefully watched him in the gloom. At length the camp appeared before the monk's startled eyes, as he could not draw back, for the hunters had doubtless perceived him already; he decided on pushing forward, while desperately muttering-- "The Lord have mercy upon me!" CHAPTER III. DOWN THE PRECIPICE.