He also said he didn’t want to miss the steamboat for anything.”

“What peones will he come with?”

“With Raimundo, nobody else. He carries his suitcase . . .”

“Quiet!” Longhi cut him off in a low voice. “There’s noise.”

They both held their breath so as to hear better.

“It’s nothing,” he murmured after a while. “Besides, there’s still half an hour till three. He won’t come by here before three o’clock.”

The lioness, numb with cold, struggled to make wild lunges which her master restrained.

“You’ll warm up soon,” he murmured.

Slowly, one after another, the minutes went by, and the end of the drama came upon them.

In the distance, far in the distance, the steps of a horse had sounded on the stones.

“Hurry!” cried Longhi, lending an attentive ear, “and hide in the woods. If the horse doesn’t throw him, come out right away. I’ll stay here.”

The Indian, like a ghostly shadow, ran along the trail and disappeared into the jungle. Longhi, after talking to the lioness a while, caught her snout between his hands, as he always did when he wanted to make her understand something, and in his turn vanished into the woods with her beside him.

Down the trail, with his horse at a walk, rode Alves, enshrouded up to his ears in his heavy poncho. Behind him came a laborer, carrying a stout suitcase on the bow of his saddle.

“Damned cold!” muttered Alves, feeling needles of icy air prick his ears. “Just so the steamboat comes by soon . . . Come on! Let’s pick up the pace!” he yelled to the laborer. And the duo went on at a trot.

All of a sudden an enormous, frightful roar thundered in the jungle beside them. Alves and the laborer let out a yell. The horses, crazed with terror, reared up, their front legs frantically pawing the air.

“Raimundo!” hollered Alves, his voice hoarse from fear, as he tried to control his horse.

“I can’t, boss! The . . .”

The jungle shook with another terrifying roar, which filled the human soul with all the anguish passed on by the flesh when it’s about to be devoured.

“Boss! There it is! Right there! It’s going to jump!” shouted the laborer.

And at once Alves heard the wild charge of Raimundo’s horse, as he reined in and stormed back up the trail, crazed by the imminent attack of the beast. Alves let out a curse and tried desperately to pull out his revolver. But at that instant another roar shook the earth, then at once another, and another, and Alves’ horse, its eyes out of their orbits, and drenched in sweat from fear, made a huge bolt, breaking into a run. The Brazilian, upset by the move, fell off.

“Coward!” roared Alves, getting up.

“He’s no coward, he’s done right,” he heard a calm voice answer him. Alves felt his hair standing on end:

“That voice!”

“It’s mine, that’s all,” the voice spoke again.

And suddenly the Brazilian saw standing before him, with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, the motionless form of his ex-inspector.

Alves’ forehead broke out in a heavy sweat.

“Eh, the dead don’t talk!” he muttered, going furtively for his revolver. But once more he heard the tranquil voice:

“You’d better not draw it.”

Alves looked and saw shining beside Longhi two greenish lights, of that dismal green light of the jungle. A cry escaped from the Brazilian’s chest, and he stood paralyzed with fright.

“Throw down the revolver, Sr. Alves,” he heard again.

Alves unconsciously took hold of it to throw it down. But when he had it free, his mouth twisted horribly, and his arm stretched out.

“Drop it, Sr. Alves; it’s better that way.”

From the impassible tone of his voice Alves realized that all was lost. He was now fully certain that his hour had come, inexorably and irremissibly, and a burst of insults exploded from his mouth.

“Bandit! Thief! I’m to blame for not having had you skinned alive! Thief! Thief!”

“Guaycurú!” called Longhi, as if he hadn’t heard him.

The Indian came running up the middle of the trail and stationed himself behind Longhi.

“Sr. Alves,” Longhi addressed the Brazilian, in a placid voice to which the setting, the moon, and the circumstances lent a somber solemnity. “Sr. Alves, listen to me. Five years ago a strong, healthy man arrived at your logging camp, a man who asked for nothing but to work in peace and live as tranquilly as possible. You, Sr. Alves, prevented him from doing the little good that an honorable man can do in your camp. You insulted him, pursued him, tortured him, and if this man is still alive, it’s surely because he has a mission other than that of stealing from you, as you claim. That man was incapable of taking revenge. But there are some things that embitter too deeply; so if, after a half-hour’s horrible agony, imposed with utter cowardice, and two months of suffering, that man wants to prevent forever the daily torture of two hundred peones, that man is only doing his duty. You’ve got about a minute left, Sr.