and bags turned outside in strewed the ground in all directions. Refreshed by a sip of brandy that I caused him to swallow, Don Blas declared that he had seen nobody, and that he had but newly arrived at the place when he was stretched on the earth by a musket-shot. He then added that he knew the hand that had fired the piece. This was too singular a contradiction to provoke a reply. Whether he had said too much, and, being fatigued, wished to say no more, I know not, but he spoke not another word. In the mean time his horse had been caught, and the wounded man affirmed that he thought himself sufficiently recovered to be able to reach the convoy. Still, his strength not being equal to his inclination, it was necessary to lift him on horseback. A soldier mounted behind to support him and take the reins, and we set out on the road to Hoya.
We arrived there about midday. A new incident here awaited us. Scarcely had Don Blas been laid on one of the rough beds, hastily knocked up for him in a cabin in the village, when a detachment of the escort which had been scouring the country round all the morning brought in a prisoner with his hands tied behind his back. His face was blackened, and half concealed by a handkerchief. This disguise was most suspicious, as it is the one usually adopted by Mexican highwaymen. Under this hideous mask I fancied I discerned a remarkable circumstance the features of a man who had played a most prominent part in one of the most melancholy episodes of my wanderings, Don Tomas Verduzco. Surrounded by a crowd, he did not discern me. He entreated to be led to the captain; and his voice, though altered by his agitation, was still that of the bravo. I went before the
