“Not permitted by whom?” Skye asked.

“I don’t know. But it is not permitted.”

His face had assumed the obstinate look that Jimmy recognised as being an almost universal mask when natives of any country wished to avoid giving explanations. He knew only too well the toneless voice, the furtive movements of the eyes and the air of stupidity not to realise that further questioning would get them no further.

“El beso del Diablo!” the younger boy whispered again, only to be shouted into silence by his companion.

For a moment it looked as if a quarrel would flare up between them. The younger answered the older and in a moment they were shouting and snarling at each other like two angry puppies. And then, as quickly as the storm blew up, it vanished again.

One moment the air was noisy and resonant with their raised voices and the next minute they were suddenly silent, their eyes staring ahead and then they had turned their horses and were galloping away as hard as they could go back the way they had come.

For a moment both Skye and Jimmy were too astonished to say or do anything and then, simultaneously, they turned their heads to see what had caused the flight of their guides.

Coming towards them through the flowered grass were several men on horseback.

“Who are they?” Skye asked.

“I have no idea,” Jimmy replied quietly, “but I think it best not to retreat. Let’s ride towards them, smile and appear friendly. On no account ask them any questions.”

He moved his horse forward as he spoke and Skye, drawing a little nearer to his side, went with him. There was nothing at first glance to warrant the terror that the approaching group had inspired in their guides.

Riding spirited horses the men appeared to be ordinary gauchos or cowboys of the South Americas. Their clothes were the usual hotchpotch of ancient and modern, wide sombreros, the loose trousers called bombachas tucked into boots of horsehide and factory-made tweed jackets. Only at festival time does the gaucho nowadays appear romantic.

Then, as the party came closer, both Skye and Jimmy saw that one man was different from the rest. He was riding in the centre of the group, and it was obvious without words or actions that he was the leader.

One glance at his handsome hawk-like features and broad shoulders was enough to confirm that they were in the presence of some striking personality.

He had a red scarf wound negligently round his neck, well-cut European tweeds and the light polished boots of a man whose life is spent in the saddle.

In his hand he carried a rebenque, the inevitable riding whip glistening with silver ornamentation and his saddle and stirrups were also encrusted with silver.

Whoever these men might be, here was their leader.