"Then you accept?" "Certainly, only, as according to your admission these people are not aware of the rupture of the truce, and as it would not be honourable to attack them unawares, we will warn them to be on their guard." A flash of fury darted from the eyes of the half-caste. "And if after that warning they were to renounce their project?" asked he. "Then they would be sure to withdraw without fear of being disturbed in their retreat," drily answered the Guaycurus. Malco Diaz made a gesture of fury, but after a moment a smile of raillery played upon his lips. [1] In Botocondo, _tarou_, sun, _niom_, to come--rising sun. CHAPTER VII. THE MARQUIS DE CASTELMELHOR. The man whom the marquis had called immediately after his interview with the mameluco, and whom he had at once ordered to enter his tent, was short and thick, but well made and strong, and about forty years of age. An Indian of a pure race, he bore on his countenance, which neither tattoo nor paint disfigured, the distinctive traits, although a little effaced, of the Mogul race. His black eyes, lively and full, his straight nose, his large mouth, his rather high cheekbones, formed a physiognomy which, without being handsome, was not wanting in a certain sympathetic charm. As we have said, he commanded some soldados da conquista attached to the caravan. The captain, for such is the title that he bore, respectfully saluted the marquis, and waited till it might please him to speak to him. "Sit down, Diogo," said the marquis, kindly; "we must have a long talk together." The Indian bowed, and seated himself. "You saw the man who went out of this tent a minute ago, did you not?" resumed the marquis. "Yes, your Excellency," answered the captain. "And without doubt you recognised him." The Indian smiled, without otherwise answering. "Good; what do you think of him?" "Of whom, your Excellency?" said he. "Of the man of whom I am speaking." "Why, your Excellency, I think of him what you yourself think, probably." "I ask your opinion, Señor Don Diogo, in order to judge if it tallies with mine." "Eh, eh," said the Indian, shaking his head. "Which is--" "That this man is a traitor, my lord." "So you also believe in treason on his part?" "Well, my lord, to speak frankly, for 'tis a frank explanation you ask of me is it not?" "Certainly." "Well, I am convinced that this accursed mameluco is quietly leading us to some trap that he has artfully prepared." "That is very serious, you know," answered the marquis, in a reflective tone. "Very serious indeed, your lordship. Malco is a sertanejos, and in the language of the desert, Sertão is the synonym of treason." "Well, I avow to you the suspicions you utter do not astonish me." "I am happy, my lord, to see you share my opinion." "What! You have no suspicions?" cried the marquis. "No, I am certain." "Certain! And you have told me nothing of it up to the present time?"