"Yes," he answered, in a hollow voice; "yes, General, I have a moral certainty that the boy is no other than Don Melchior Díaz." "Melchior! Thank heaven! Who would not be proud and happy of such a son?" "As the rapidity of events has not yet allowed me to confirm my suspicions, and convert them into a certainty, I have preserved the greatest silence to everybody, and the count before all." "You acted prudently." "Yes," he continued, sorrowfully; "but unhappily Diego López has told me that Don Melchior has left the Hacienda del Río, where he was, in order to start on the track of the redskins." "Alone?" the general said, with a start of terror. "That is the very thing that terrifies me, General. The poor young man burns with a desire to save Doña Emilia and her daughter; he is ignorant of Indian habits, and I feel convinced that he will allow his ardour to carry him away, and become a victim to his devotion." "That is only too probable." "The more so, because the redskins are implacable, and will not hesitate to sacrifice him to their hatred of the Mexicans. Fortunately the count is still ignorant that this young man is his son, as the news would have infallibly killed him." The general let his head fall on his chest, and sighed. At this moment the door of the jacal was opened, and the count and Don Aníbal entered. In a few hours the hacendero had aged ten years; his pale, worn features, his eyes hollowed by fever, and his wild looks were pitiable to behold. "General," he said in a faint voice, "Sotavento has escaped; did you know it?" "I did, my friend," the general said, taking his hand affectionately; "I know it, and am glad of it." His hearers gave a start of surprise. "This man," the general continued gently, "is a villain of the worst species. The horrible crime of which he has been guilty he must have long been meditating; all his measures were taken so as to throw out your pursuit, the confidence you placed in him only favoured him too thoroughly in the execution of his odious plots." The hacendero sighed. "This man would have died sooner than reveal anything to you. You know the Indians. You are aware to what a point they carry their obstinacy; his living and his flight are of more use to you now than his presence or his death would be. Clary, my friend, has the provost marshal told you at what spot the villain escaped?" "He has, Excellency." "It is well. This man, however crafty he may be, cannot have disappeared without leaving a trail, and that trail must be lifted: Be assured that it will lead you to the den where this monster has concealed his victims." "Yes," Don Aníbal observed; "but who will find this trail?" "Here is the man," the general said, stretching out his arm to the Canadian. "Did you never hear tell of the skill of the Canadians in following a trail?" "This time, General, my skill would be thrown out," the hunter replied. "Water does not retain a trail."