Natividad, closely questioned by the Marquis, finished by telling all he knew, and left them little hope. While loth to cause pain, he could not disguise certain facts. In a sense, too, he was triumphant. A conscientious official, he had once almost ruined his administrative career by certain reports on Quichua customs, dealing notably with the ritual murder of women and children. He had been laughed at, and called a lunatic—now the Red Ponchos were at work again.
The silence of despair greeted his words. Then, anxious to reassure them, the little old gentleman insisted that the Indians could not go far with their precious burden. All the defiles of the sierra were held by Veintemilla's troops. They would always give assistance to the police, and the Indians were bound to run into them as soon as they left the costa. The chief thing was not to lose the trail.
They had now reached the point where the railway line joined the highroad running parallel to the sea, and all eyes were fixed on the great white band stretching out there in the moonlight. At first, it was bordered by a few tumble-down cabins and bamboo cottages, but soon there was only the nakedness of a huge sandy plain before them. Dick, the Marquis and Natividad, grouped at the windows, searched
