"Oh! A scratch!" replied Mataseis, with a ghastly smile, and, for want of a handkerchief, wiping his face with his poncho; "Better that I should be wounded than my brother, who is so good, and whom I love so much."
"These sentiments honour you as well as your brother," ironically answered Don Pablo; "it is charming, upon my word, to see a family so united as yours; I am quite overcome by it."
"You flatter us, señor," answered Mataseis, who did not know whether to laugh or to cry, but who, in the dilemma, adopted the former alternative.
"Well," said Don Pablo, "as you have now finished—for you have done, have you not?—"
"Quite, señor."
"Very well; then, if you please, Señor Mataseis, you shall wash your face with a little water, and then, as I have not a moment to lose, we will speak a little of our business."
"We are at your orders, caballero."
"I will be back in a minute," said Mataseis, leaving the thicket, and running towards a stream not far distant.
"Ah, you have had a quarrel, then, with your brother, Señor Sacatripas?" asked Don Pablo.
"I, señor!" cried the gaucho, with a start of affected astonishment; "I quarrel with my brother, my only relation, my only friend—he whom I cherish more than myself! Oh, señor, you cannot believe it!"
Don Pablo looked at him a moment with admiration.
"Come," said he, "you have acted your parts well; you are well matched; do not let us say any more about it; it is quite agreed that you are model brothers."
At this moment Mataseis returned; he had made a poultice of coca leaves, and had placed it on his face, tying it on with a strip tom from a blanket; so that he had an extraordinarily original appearance.
"Let us talk then," said Don Pablo, seating himself on the grass, and making a sign to the gauchos to take their seats near him.
"Let us talk," replied the latter.
The sun, which had been nearly on the level of the horizon, soon disappeared; his disc was no longer visible through the branches; the evening breeze in fitful gusts agitated the foliage, and the birds rapidly regained their roost for the night. The atmosphere was sensibly refreshed, and though light remained on the plain, the thickets and shrubbery were already shadowed by twilight. The mosquitoes buzzed by myriads over the ponds and lakes, the greenish and stagnant water of which was agitated by the movements of the reptiles. Already some dull growls had troubled the silence of the desert, announcing the awakening of the animals, saluting, on emerging from their secret lairs, the setting of the sun.
The three men were sitting in the underwood, which began to be shrouded in darkness. The Pincheyra had gone to seek his horse, which had been left near those of the gauchos, to feed on the fresh grass and the young roots of trees.
"Shall we light a fire?" asked Mataseis.
"What for?" asked Don Pablo.
"Why, first to see clearly, and then to warm ourselves."
"To say nothing of the glare of the fire keeping off the wild beasts," added Sacatripas.
"And attracting the red and white spies who are roaming about," said the partisan with irony. "Are you afraid?"
"Afraid—of what?" said Mataseis.
"I do not know—of your shadow, perhaps?"
"Never—neither my brother nor I—we have no fear," said the gaucho, in a harsh voice.
"Ah; not even that of rapping your knuckles in striking flint and steel," pursued the Pincheyra in a tone of sarcasm; "then I offer you my compliments, caballeros; for I have many a time had that fear myself."
The gauchos understood the raillery, and frowned.
"Is it to babble like drivelling old women, or to talk on serious matters, like true men, that we are here?" asked Mataseis in a sulky tone.
"That is good, señor caballero!" cried Don Pablo laughing. "¡Vive Dios! How you take fire at an innocent joke!"
"I don't call that joking," said the gaucho drily.
"Come, calm yourself, valiant caballero; I shall be henceforth serious as an Indian chief, as you wish it; well then, I think it will be best not to light a fire."
"Then, do not light it—it is quite indifferent to me; but though the conversation may be a short one, we shall be benumbed with cold by the time it is over."
"I do not say no, but prudence demands that we take the greatest precautions. We are not here on an open hill, where the eye, ranging without hindrance on either side, enables the approach of an enemy to be seen by the simple undulation of the grass. We are, on the contrary, crouched like wolves in the underwood, enveloped on all sides by walls of foliage. Remember the axiom of the desert, the justice of which has many a time been shown: 'In the forest, trees have ears, and leaves have eyes;' how can we know that spies are not roaming about in the shadows? The light of a cigar would be enough to attract them; the matters of which we have to converse are too grave for us to run the risk, when we can avoid it, of being surprised and overheard."
"You are right; I will not argue any more. Now I beg you come to the point without more delay."
"Are you free?"
"Free as birds; free as air."
"You have broken your engagement with Don Emile?"
"This very morning."
"If that is the case, I can understand your game with the knife."
"With all respect to you, señor, you do not understand it at all."
"Bah! Don Emile, in dismissing you, has given each of you a pretty good sum. Naturally, you have played while waiting for me, and thence the wound on the cheek."
"Well, señor, you are not at all right: although there is some truth in what you say, you have nevertheless made a serious mistake, which it is my duty to correct."
"Well, let us have it. I am all ears."
"Well, Don Emile has certainly dismissed us; he offered each of us four ounces, which he owed us for a month's salary."
"Of course you accepted it?"
"That is where you are wrong, señor. We refused it."
"You refused it? Oho! That tale is rather too good for me, gentlemen."
"It is, nevertheless, strictly true."
"Well, you doubtless had a motive for so acting?"
"Yes; this was it. On receiving Don Emile's money we engaged on our honour, according to the treaty we had with him, not to endeavour to do him any injury for the course of a month."
"¡Caspita! That is certainly serious. And you had the courage to refuse?"
"Not to betray our consciences, and to preserve our liberty of action, yes, señor!"
"We are caballeros," added Sacatripas, "and you know, señor, for a caballero, honour is everything."
"¡Caspita! I know it," cried Don Pablo, bowing with an ironical smile, which, thanks to the increasing darkness, passed unperceived by the gaucho. "Do you know, caballeros, the more I reflect, the more I think your action was magnificent."
"We have only done our duty," modestly answered Mataseis.
"That is true; but how many others in your position would have pocketed the ounces!"
The two fellows were delighted at these mocking compliments, which they took, or rather pretended to take—for they were not fools—like so much ready money.
"Every good action merits reward," continued the Pincheyra, "and sooner or later that reward comes. You shall now have a proof of it," added he, taking out a little bag made of Spanish wool, the rotundity of which was pleasant to see, from under his poncho; "you have given proof of a disinterestedness and a loyalty which show me that you really are caballeros. You have refused four ounces; well, I shall be pleased to give you ten."
"Oh, caballero," cried the bandits.
"I know what you are going to say to me," pursued Don Pablo; "you were going to assert that every good action carries in itself its own reward."
"Yes, señor; you have guessed what we mean," cried Mataseis, with enthusiasm. This, however, was not at all what he thought.
"But I do not agree with that," continued Don Pablo, "I should like you thoroughly to understand that I know how to appreciate an action like yours."
He then opened the bag without appearing to notice that the bandits gloated on it, delicately introduced his long and slender fingers into its mouth, and took out just the sum promised.
"There, my braves," said he, sharing the sum between them, and at the same moment pocketing his purse; "there is your money."
The gauchos held out their hands, seized the money, and put it into their large pockets with a thrill of pleasure, mixed, however, with a little bitterness at the thought that it would have been easy, and much more profitable, to take the eight ounces from Don Emile; but people cannot think of everything. They found out their want of cleverness too late.
"Now let us return to business," coolly said Don Pablo, unceremoniously stopping the speech of the gauchos, who seemed to consider themselves bound to offer exaggerated specimens of gratitude; "have you quite decided to serve me?"
"We have," answered Mataseis, in his own name and that of his brother.
"Here is the matter, then; for motives, which I need not tell you, I wish to seize two persons who, having set out a few days since, are to meet, in company with several others, at about twenty leagues from the spot where we are, the rendezvous having been arranged beforehand."
"Good! That can be done!"
"But it is more difficult than you suppose. Unhappily, it is impossible for me to employ the men of my own squadron; they are too well known, and the secret would immediately transpire."
"Who are these two persons?"
"The first is a Frenchman."
"Don Emile!" cried the gaucho.
"You have not guessed it; on the contrary, I believe that this Frenchman is the mortal enemy of Don Emile."
"So much the better!" answered Mataseis with affectation; "I should have been much annoyed at being his enemy."
"He is such a good young man!" said Sacatripas, like an echo.
The Pincheyra smiled.
"This Frenchman is named, I believe, Dubois, or something of that sort."
"Yes, yes; we know him. He arrived in this country, where he now enjoys considerable influence with the government, only, a few months ego. He came from Chili, if my memory does not deceive me."
"It is just this man with whom we have to do. Do you think you will find any difficulty in seizing him?"
"Not the least. Now for the other."
"The other is General Don Eusebio Moratín."
"Who is about to be chosen president of the republic?"
"The same."
"Hum! It is a serious matter."
"Very serious—I have already warned you of that."
"General Moratín is a good patriot—a man of some consideration, and much liked—he is one of the pillars of the revolution."
"It is just for that reason that I wish to get him out of the way," said Don Pablo, impatiently.
"To get rid of him. Do you wish to kill him, then?"
"To kill him, or take him—it matters little, so that he disappears how the affair is managed."
"And the other?"
"The question is the same for both."
"The devil!" murmured the gaucho, scratching his head furiously apparently to find a solution.
"That will be very costly, will it not?"
"Two good patriots!" continued Mataseis, without appearing to have heard Don Pablo's remarks; "We also are patriots; we have gloriously shed our blood for liberty."
"It will cost a great deal, as far as I can see."
"Oh, my dear country!" cried Sacatripas, raising his hands and his eyes to Heaven with mock enthusiasm.
Don Pablo stamped with rage. He knew very well how to take the patriotic sentiments of the two fellows; and although he himself was not a man of much delicacy in such matters and in many others, this ridiculous squeamishness disgusted him. However, it was necessary for him to conceal his disgust, for he had now advanced too far to retreat.
"Oh!" cried Mataseis, "Such a proposition—to us!"
"To caballeros!" exclaimed Sacatripas, covering his face.
"So you refuse?" coldly said the Pincheyra, making a movement to rise.
"We do not say that!" quickly cried Mataseis, retaining him by the poncho.
"We never said that," echoed Sacatripas.
"Only at the thought of committing this action, our heart bleeds."
"We must, however, decide," pursued Don Pablo; "however agreeable your company may be, I cannot remain all night with you. I thought you were intelligent men, free from prejudices; that is why I chose you for this business. If it is not agreeable to you to serve me, consider that I have said nothing about it. I will propose it to others less scrupulous, who will be charmed at thus earning a hundred ounces, which is a pretty sum."
"What was it you said, señor?" sharply cried Mataseis.
"I said a hundred ounces," coolly answered Don Pablo; "as times go, gentlemen, you ought to look twice at that before refusing 1700 piastres (£212). Money becomes more and more scarce, and if the revolution only lasts two years more, we shall not be able to get any at all."
"True, señor; we live in very unfortunate times."
"Yes, yes, very unfortunate," added Sacatripas, in tears.
"Come, decide; is it yes or no," said Don Pablo, in a peremptory tone. "I will add, by-the-bye, if that will calm your honourable scruples, that these two men, with regard to whom you are so tender, are only going to the rendezvous of which I have spoken with the design of betraying what you call your republic."
"Oh, oh! Are you quite certain of what you say, señor?" asked Sacatripas, breathing like a man on the point of drowning, and who suddenly raised his head above the water.
"There is nothing more certain; besides, as you will probably be present at the interview they are to have with the Brazilian general—"
"What! Are they thinking of treating with the Brazilians?"
"They simply wish to sell their country to Brazil."
"Ah, look at that, my dear fellow," exclaimed Sacatripas; "that, it seems to me, considerably alters the matter."
"Changes it completely," answered the latter.
"We shall do the work of good patriots by arresting a traitor."
"By frustrating a horrible plot," exclaimed Sacatripas, with a gesture of horror.
"And you gain one hundred ounces, which cannot do you any harm."
"And we gain one hundred," cried Mataseis, eagerly; but suddenly stopping and biting his lips, "Oh! Believe us, señor," said he, with compunction, "that the love of our country alone animates us in this matter. We have no other interest than this—to save our country from the abyss into which traitors wish to hurl it."
"No other than that," added Sacatripas, who made a point of modelling all he said on that of his brother.
"That is agreed," said Don Pablo, bowing; "so it is now agreed—you accept?"
"We accept; we must serve our country whenever occasion offers, but we want some instructions."
"I am ready to give you all you require."
"First; how are we to proceed?"
"As to that, that is your affair. I leave the choice of means entirely to you; the result alone concerns me. You are very intelligent caballeros, endowed with a very fertile imagination; quite accustomed to this sort of affair, in which you have acquired great experience. I do not doubt that, if you will give yourself the trouble, you will come out of the affair with honour."
"You flatter us, señor; but the business seems to us a thorny one."
"Very thorny," said Sacatripas, shaking his head.
"Bah! It requires a little skill, that is all. You are known for good patriots. In the escort, you will probably meet friends, or, at least, acquaintances; no difficulty will be made in receiving you, and when the occasion presents itself, well—you will seize it!"
"That's it—we will seize it. Is it important to kill them?"
"Upon my word—that is your business. Provided that you give me an undeniable proof that you have accomplished your mission, I shall not require anything else. You will see, you will reflect. Prisoners are often very embarrassing in the desert when you have not enough men to guard them, so that they cannot attempt to escape. But you will do as you shall think best."
"That is to say, that we have carte blanche?"
"Just so."
"Good! It is well to understand one another, in order that we may not commit errors which will have to be much regretted. Where do you think we shall meet our two personages."
"As to that, you cannot make a mistake. They come from Tucumán, and will, of course, take the bank of the Rio Dulce, as there is no other practicable path."
"Have they already set out?"
"I will not be certain, but I think so."
"Very well; we will join them. That will be neither long nor difficult, as we have only to retrace our steps—which we are going to do this very evening—for we by no means care to pass the night in the place in which we are."
"Well put, my master."
"When our mission shall be terminated, we shall probably have to give you an account of it, if it is only—"
"To take your money," interrupted Don Pablo.
"It is not that that I wished to say," quickly replied Mataseis, whose concealed thought, however, it was—for he was not sorry to see the prospect of the promised reward. "If it be only, I was saying, to give you an account of what has happened—to give you up the prisoners, if we have them—or, at least, to give you the proofs that you wish of their arrest."
"Just so; we must see each other again. Oh! That will be very easy; why cannot you go as far as Casa-Frama?"
The gauchos made a grimace. This proposition by no means pleased them; it was putting themselves under the paws of the lion.
"It is very far," observed Mataseis. "The roads are very bad; the journey would occasion us an irreparable loss of time."
"Yes, and then," said the Pincheyra, smiling, "great as is the confidence you have in me, it does not go so far as to induce you to place yourself entirely at my mercy. I understand your hesitation."
"Oh, señor I do not think—"
"I do not think anything, and you give me no offence, I assure you. In this world it is good to be prudent, and so far you are right. To come to Casa-Frama would necessitate your making a journey which, in the event of your bringing the prisoners with you, would be very troublesome. This rendezvous would be worth nothing. I prefer to give you another."
"Whatever it is, caballero, we accept it with the greatest pleasure."
"I am sure of it. You, of course, know the town of Cordova?"
"On the Rio Primero—yes, señor."
"It is not far from the Rio Dulce?"
"About twenty leagues at the most."
"That's it. Well, at about two leagues from Cordova, coming from the Rio Dulce, there is a tambo."
"The tambo del Almendral—we know it well; there are two magnificent almond trees before the door."
"That's it. Well, your expedition terminated, proceed directly to this tambo. I will wait for you."
"We shall take care not to fail, caballero."
"I wish, before leaving you, to give you a proof of the confidence which I have in you."
"A confidence which shall be justified, do not doubt it, señor."
"I have promised you one hundred ounces each, have I not?"
"Yes, señor, one hundred ounces each," said the bandits, whose eyes flashed with covetousness.
Don Pablo again took from under his poncho the Spanish wool purse, and took from it a certain number of pieces of gold.
"Here are twenty-five ounces each," said he, presenting them, "which I beg you to accept as an earnest of our bargain."
"Oh, señor!" they cried, pocketing the money joyfully; "There is no necessity for that."
"I know you too well not to be assured of your complete disinterestedness," he answered; "but we do not know what may happen. Perhaps you will have expenses to incur, so that you had better have funds. Now, gentlemen, we have not, I think, anything more to say. I shall have the honour, then, of taking leave of you, for I have far to go before I get any repose for the night."
"We, too, are going to set out, señor, and if you are going our way, we shall be happy to have your company as far as possible."
"Whatever direction you take," answered he, frowning, "that which I take is diametrically opposite to it."
"That is enough, señor," answered Mataseis, in an offended tone.
"Do not misunderstand my words," resumed Don Pablo, who saw his mistake; "the success of the affair in which we are engaged demands that no one should know of the relations which exist between us. Otherwise, I should be delighted and honoured by taking advantage, for a longer time, of your agreeable company."
The gauchos bowed deferentially. Matters being thus arranged on a good footing, Don Pablo hastened to saddle his horse, and immediately leaped on his back.
"Adieu, señores," said he, bowing slightly to them. "Before separating, permit me to say a last word."
"Speak, señor."
"Well, if I am satisfied with the way in which you shall accomplish your mission, bear this in mind—the twenty-five ounces that I have given you shall not be taken from the sum I have promised you—you understand? Au revoir."
And spurring his horse, he emerged from the thicket, leaving the gauchos there, in a state of jubilation impossible to describe.
"Eh! Eh!" cried Mataseis, rubbing his hands; "this day's work has not been bad—what do you say, my dear fellow?"
"I think it is capital," answered Sacatripas.
"Yes, yes," said the other, with some remains of rancour, "because you have done me out of ten ounces."
"Do not let us speak anymore of that; the affair has been settled."
"Yes, on my face, by an ugly scratch."
"Do you complain of that? It is so skilfully made, that you look like a guapo (bravo) of Santiago."
"I do not complain of it, but it smarts very much."
"Bah! Tomorrow you will think nothing of it."
"I hope so, indeed. Shall we go? It is already late."
"Nearly half past six; how the time passes in talking!"
"Yes, and in reckoning money," said Mataseis, laughing.
"Well, let us go then; we shall have the advantage of moonlight some part of the way, which will be all the better, as our horses are tired."
They then saddled their horses.
"I did not think Don Pablo Pincheyra was so generous," said Sacatripas, while placing the harness on his horse.
"Nor I either; he has been represented to me as an avaricious man."
"The death of these two men must be a matter of great importance to him."
"That is just what I think. By-the-bye, shall we kill them or not?"
"What should we do with them? They would embarrass us."
"Bah! Let us kill them; in that way we should not fear their escaping."
"That is the surest way; an affair like this ought not to be done by halves."
"Well, we will decide on that—we will kill them."
"We will kill them."
After having thus come to an agreement, the two bandits lighted their cigars, mounted on horseback, and took the road which would take them out of the wood, where this dark plot had just been conducted.
Several days had passed since that on which the two gauchos, after leaving the service of the young painter, had gone to ensconce themselves in the thicket, whither a sinister appointment called them. The Guaycurus had continued their journey with that extraordinary rapidity which is a characteristic of the Indians.
We now find them camped in an immense plain, concealed in the midst of an immense forest, the trees of which—a century old—form round them walls of verdure, through which it is impossible for the eye to pierce.
This plain—an advanced post, as it were, of the great chaco, that trackless desert which is the unexplored refuge of the Indian bravos who flee from civilisation—forms a part of the llano de Manso, in the fictitious province of Yapizlaga. We say fictitious, and intentionally; for since its discovery, if the Europeans have succeeded in giving a name to this part of the American territory, they have certainly never succeeded in building towns there, though they have established missions.
This territory is really the sacred soil of the aboriginal Americans; they alone inhabit it, and traverse it in every direction. Even at the present day the whites only find in this immense valley a miserable death, after horrible sufferings, and their whitened bones,-scattered in every direction, appear to warn those whom a mad folly may induce to follow in the same traces, that such is the fate which attends them in this inhospitable region.
But the llano de Manso is not, as might be supposed, a sterile plain like the Pampas of Buenos Aires, or a desolate desert like the Sahara. No country in the world, perhaps, possesses a more luxuriant vegetation, more verdant banks, or forests more woody, or better stocked with game of all sorts. Several rivers, and some of them of considerable importance, wind their sinewy course through the llano (plain) which they fertilise. Of these streams the principal is the Rio Tarifa, an affluent of the Rio Bermejo, which itself is an affluent of the Rio Paraguay, and the Rio Pilcomayo, which, after traversing the llano for its entire length, loses itself in the Rio Paraguay by three embouchures. All these rivers—at first torrents—descend the Cordilleras; their picturesque banks are often inundated to a distance of two or three leagues in the rainy season and then the llano, the low vegetation of which almost entirely disappears under the water, assumes a strange and fantastic appearance.
This immense plain, the natural frontiers of which extend very far from Brazil and the old Spanish colonies, is considered by the greater part of the Indian nations who live in the chaco as a neutral territory where each has the right of trying his fortune—from the hunter's point of view, of course—without anyone contesting his right.
The principal tribes who traverse this desert, or who have temporary habitations there, are the Lengoas, the Zamercose, the Chiriguanos, the Payagoas, and the Guaycurus, the most renowned of all—those to whom the Portuguese, to distinguish them from the other tribes, have given the characteristic name of Indian cabalheiros (cavaliers or gentlemen); not only because their life is passed, so to say, on horseback, but especially on account of their remarkable intelligence, and their manners, which bear testimony to a former civilisation—almost, lest it is true, but which must have been very advanced.
The whites, we repeat, were alone excluded from this sacred territory, where their presence entailed death, with all the refinements invented by Indian imagination.
The war detachment of the Guaycurus—which we have seen at the commencement of this work, set out from the Rincón del Bosquecillo, to fight for the Brazilians in the old Spanish colonies, now completely emancipated—was at last on its return to the territories of its tribe after having traversed enormous distances, penetrated a long way into the Chilian Cordilleras, braved for several months all sorts of perils, and enraged in skirmishes without number.
The joy of the Indians was great; it almost amounted to delirium, for many of them had given up the hope of again seeing those fertile regions where they had been born, and had often shuddered at the thought of dying ingloriously in the midst of the snows of the Cordilleras.
On the preceding evening they had at last reached the goal towards which their desires had so long tended. The llano had appeared to them in its grandiose majesty, and a cry of delight had burst from breasts so long oppressed by fear. The camp had been established in a vast glade, in the midst of an immense forest, the most mysterious recesses of which were well known to the warriors, who often ventured there in pursuit of wild animals.
As soon as the camp bad been installed, and watch fires had been lighted—for the position was so well chosen that it was impossible that the light should be perceived from the plain, so thick was the foliage which surrounded the glade—the Cougar had immediately sent as emissary to Tarou Niom, the first chief of the tribe, who lived in a village about thirty leagues, as the crow flies—a very short distance for the Indians.
The emissary having set off, the captains occupied themselves in obtaining a large supply of dry wood, as producing less smoke, to keep up the fires; and some forty warriors, under the orders of the Gueyma, had started off as a hunting party for two or three days, while the Indians who remained at the camp employed themselves in constructing enramadas, to shelter the warriors, and corals to enclose the horses.
All these labours showed that the detachment, instead of continuing the journey as far as the villages of its tribe, intended to make a pretty long stay in the glade; for, ordinarily, encampments for two or three days do not necessitate any precautions. All that is thought of is to light fires to roast the meat and to keep off the wild beasts during the night.
This new delay to their return had caused the Indians a somewhat acute disappointment, and much diminished their joy, for nearly all had wives and children that they longed to see; but they were constrained to obey, and we may add that they did this with a good grace, convinced that their chiefs wished as much as themselves to see their homes again, and that if they stopped at the moment when they were just at the end of their journey there were probably grave reasons for acting thus.
It was about two in the afternoon. Thanks to the labours executed under the surveillance of the captains, the glade had assumed the appearance of an Indian village, by reason of the enramadas (huts), supported against each other, forming streets, which all radiated from one common centre, where, in the midst of a kind of place, was raised an enramada, larger and made with more care, intended to serve for the hut of the council.
Here and there Guaycurus went and came, some carrying water, others wood, others again leading horses to water at a neighbouring stream. The Cougar had set out since the morning, with the party who were charged to gather brushwood; the only chief who remained in the camp was Arnal, as Gueyma had gone off at daybreak, at the head of the hunters.
Arnal was at this moment walking in the camp, in company with Dove's Eye. The graceful girl was laughing and leaping near the chief, whose grave bearing and knitted eyebrows manifested serious thought.
"Look, chief," said the young girl, looking round her with admiration, "how well everything is arranged. If there were women, we might think it was a village."
"Why do you call me chief?" asked the warrior.
"Why, my brother," answered she, ingenuously, "I thought to please you, by giving you the title which belongs to you."
"You are a foolish child, Dove's Eye; your head is empty."
"Yes, but my heart is not," answered she, impulsively.
"What do you mean by that?" said Arnal, with severity.
"Will Gueyma soon return from the chase, my good brother?" pursued the girl, with a calm voice.
"What does that matter?"
"It matters very much to me, brother; Gueyma is a powerful chief; he loves me."
"Who has told you that?" said Arnal, stopping in his walk.
"Himself, this morning, before leaving for the chase," answered she, without being disconcerted; "oh! It is not the first time."
"Gueyma has acted badly in speaking thus to you," severely answered the chief; "and you have acted unwisely in listening to him. Both of you have failed in your promises."
"Pardon me, brother," replied the young girl, her eyes filling with tears.
"Tell me what has passed between you," said the chief, drawing the girl a little on one side.
"I will do so willingly, brother; but I beg you, change this sad look, which frightens me, for if you do not, I shall not have the courage to tell you anything."
"You will really tell me everything?"
"Oh, I promise you, my brother."
"Come, I believe you. Speak, I am listening," said Arnal, whose brow brightened.
"This, then, is what has happened, my brother," resumed the girl, assuming a coaxing tone, and lowering her eyes, slightly blushing. "Three days ago we had stopped sooner than usual, and the camp had been formed on the bank of a river that we were to cross the next day. You remember it, do you not?"
"Yes, I remember it. Go on."
"Gueyma had been designated by yourself to go with some warriors to seek for a ford. The sun was still high in the horizon; the day's journey had not been long, and I was not tired. Obliged to watch the formation of the camp, you had left me alone, and I became very dull. I at first intended to go and talk with the palefaces, who are so good, and towards whom you manifest so many marks of friendship."
"You would have done well to have paid them a visit," interrupted Arnal, with some emotion.
"I did not dare, my brother; I feared to be blamed by you. Then, as you did not return, and as I became more and more dull, the idea seized me to go and gather flowers on the bank of the river; was it bad?"
"No, if you had no afterthought."
"What afterthought?" asked the young girl, ingenuously.
Arnal bit his lips.
"Nothing, nothing; go on," said he.
"I went then to the river; there was a multitude of beautiful flowers —blue, yellow, white, violet, red—and I don't know what else. I jumped with delight, and I began to gather as many flowers as I could carry; then I sat on the bank of the river to form a coronet; and while I was thus occupied, singing this pretty song—you know, brother—"
"A bird in the sky,With azure wing.Doth gently flyTo—"
"I know the song, child, for it was with that that you were cradled."
"I was singing it then," resumed the young girl, "when I heard a slight noise near me. I turned; Gueyma was but two paces off, at the foot of a tree. He looked at me; his eyes were wet with tears."
"You do not know what you say, child," briskly interrupted Arnal.
"Oh, I am indeed quite certain of it, for I saw them. I do not know what I suffered, brother; my chest heaved as if it were about to burst; my heart beat violently; I felt that I was very pale, and I remained quite silent. 'Oh, go on, Dove's Eye,' he said to me, entreatingly; 'sing, sing again.' Then I felt the words coming back to me, and I finished the song. He listened to it without interrupting me; then, when I had finished, he approached me, took my hand, and in a sweet and trembling voice, said: 'You are good, Dove's Eye; thank you for the moment of happiness that you have given me.' I felt my hand tremble in his; I dared not answer, and I remained motionless, my eyes downcast, not knowing how to look at him. 'For whom have you gathered those flowers?' he asked me after a pause. 'For myself,' I answered, confusedly. 'Will you allow me to take one?' he continued, in a voice trembling as my own. 'Oh I take them all!' I cried, giving them to him; and in spite of myself—I don't know how it was—I felt that my heart was full, and I burst into tears. 'Oh! I have given you pain!' cried he, with an accent so piteous that with an effort I smiled through my tears, answering him gently: 'Oh! no, Gueyma—on the contrary.' At these words his countenance suddenly changed and became radiant. You see that I tell you everything, my brother."
"Go on, go on!" cried the latter, with ill-concealed impatience.
"Both of us were silent," resumed the young girl; "we looked at each other without daring to speak, and yet I felt unspeakable happiness in knowing that he was near me. Several times he seemed on the point of speaking to me; his lips half-opened. I listened, but no sound escaped them. At last he leaned towards me, and, in a voice as soft as a sigh, 'I love you, Dove's Eye,' he said to me, 'do you love me?' 'Yes,' murmured I, and this simple word seemed to give him so much pleasure that I do not regret having allowed it to escape me."
"'Dove's Eye,' he then said to me, 'we are now bound to each other by ties of mutual love that nothing can break on earth or in heaven; will you always love me?' 'Always.' 'Thank you, Dove's Eye,' he resumed, 'I have faith in you; none other but you shall be my wife; I will ask you of your brother; in the moon of the eagles we will be united. Good-bye for the present, Dove's Eye; if your brother asks you, do not conceal anything from him; tell him all that has passed between us. There is nothing wrong; he will understand our love, and will consent to make us happy.' I chose a flower—one only among all those I had presented to him. I took that flower, I impressed a kiss on its half-opened cup, and then I offered it to Gueyma. He took it, lifted it quickly to his lips, pressed my hand again, disappeared behind the shrubbery, and I remained alone. Then I pensively retraced my way to the camp. It seemed as if I had lived an age in a few minutes, and that all was changed around me. There is the narrative that you asked of me, my brother; as Gueyma had recommended me, and as I promised you, I have concealed nothing. Do you blame me for what has happened?"
"Eh! Why should I blame you, poor child!" cried Arnal, with sad emotion; "Can I render you responsible for a fault which is not yours? You have obeyed the instinct of your heart; nature has been stronger than my experience, and has upset all my calculations of happiness for you. I will see Gueyma; I will sound his intentions; only promise me not to speak to him except before me. The care of your future belongs to me only, and I wish that you may be happy."
"I will obey you, brother, in whatever you ask of me."
"Good, my girl; I rely on your promise; now dry your tears and follow me. We will go and see the whites that you love so much."
"Ah! So much the better!" cried the young girl, suddenly becoming joyous again at this news.
Contrary to the prejudice which the Indians have against the whites, for whom they profess an implacable hatred, the Guaycurus had treated the French painter and the persons who accompanied him with the greatest consideration, considering their guests almost as if they had been their brothers. As to Emile Gagnepain, the cordiality that the Indians manifested towards him increased, and under all circumstances the captains exhibited a marked deference for him. Several times, indeed, they had invited him to take his place with them round the council fire, appearing to attach great importance to his opinion.
Although flattered by these proofs of sympathy, the young man had constantly declined these advances, fearing, if he accepted them, to give rise to jealousy on the part of certain warriors, and thus to create enemies in the detachment when he only desired friends in view of their influence with regard to the two ladies.
This conduct—at once wise and skilful—far from injuring the young man—had only increased the esteem that the Indians, and especially the captains, had for him. Amongst the latter there was one who appeared to have for him and the two ladies a sincere friendship: it was Arnal.
Every time that he could find an opportunity to withdraw himself from his duties as a chief, either while in camp or on the march, Arnal seized it eagerly to visit—always in company with Dove's Eye—his white friends, as he called them—although his complexion was nearly the same as theirs—and to talk for hours with them.
These thoroughly intimate conversations were full of charms, especially for strangers. Arnal talked well; he had seen much; his experience of life was great. There was, then, a good deal to learn in his company—so much the more as his elevated ideas, and his acquired knowledge, formed a complete contrast to the ignorance of the other Indians.
Strange to say, Arnal had never seemed to notice the disguise of the ladies; he had never made any allusion to the subject, and if he had made the discovery he had carefully concealed it in his own heart.
The artlessness and the native grace of Dove's Eye during these interviews, softened what there was grave and severe in the bearing and the words of her brother. The ladies had taken her into their friendship; they pampered her like a sister, and complacently allowed themselves to be teased by her.
The hours which the brother and sister thus passed with the strangers were the only rays of sunny light which cheered their sad existence. It was, therefore, with a real sentiment of joy that the latter saw them arrive at their enramada if they were in camp, or range themselves near them if the detachment was on the march.
The day on which we resume our recital, Emile awaited with lively impatience the visit of his friends, and it was with the greatest pleasure that he at last saw them arrive.
The conversation was at first general between the five persons; then, by degrees, the two ladies occupied themselves with Dove's Eye, whom they took to the other extremity of the enramada, so that Emile and Arnal remained, so to say, alone.
"I see that you wish to speak to me," said the chief, smiling, "and I think I can guess what you are going to ask me, Señor Don Emile."
"It is true that I wish to speak with you, chief," answered the young man, rather surprised at this abrupt appeal; "but as to what I wish to say, I doubt—unless you are a magician—whether you can guess."
"You shall be able to judge of that," seriously answered Arnal. "Here is the substance—for I do not pretend to know the exact details—of what you wish to say. We are camped nearly in the middle of the llano de Manso, at some forty leagues from the frontiers of Brazil, where you wish to proceed with your friends. The distance which now separates you from your persecutors is too great for you to fear them any longer; you have a great desire to pass the frontier, and at last to reach the Brazilian territory. The protection that we have given you from this time becomes needless. Instead of wasting your time by remaining in this forest, which has no great interest for you, you wish to obtain, thanks to my influence, the right of continuing your journey, under the escort of ten or a dozen of our warriors. Is that it, my friend? Have I told you all? Have I forgotten anything? Speak; I am ready to apologise if I am wrong."
Arnal could easily have continued to speak as long again, without fear of being interrupted by his listener; the latter was literally dumbfounded by surprise. What the chief had told him was exact in every particular. In a long conversation with the marchioness and Doña Eva, the Frenchman had agreed to make this request of the captain at their first meeting; but what he could not understand was, how Arnal had been so well informed as to a secret that he thought he and the two ladies alone possessed.
But Arnal did not intend to let the Frenchman off so easily. He for a time enjoyed his triumph, and then resumed in a gentle and insinuating voice:
"Does it annoy you, my friend, to find me so well informed as to your projects? I possess secrets more important still."
"Chief!" at last murmured the young man, blushing and casting a furtive look behind him.
"Reassure yourself, my friend. As these secrets concern you only, and as I have learned them without your authority, I will keep them in my own breast; I will even forget them if you wish it."
"But how does it happen—"
"Friend," interrupted Arnal, with melancholy, "although my life does not number many years, I have learnt many things; but enough of that— let that suffice you."
"Be it so. But one word. Do you favour my projects?"
"No!" answered he, sharply.
"No!" cried the young man, with amazement.
The two ladies had quietly approached. They listened, and grew pale. With a gesture, Arnal ordered the young girl to go away. Dove's Eye immediately obeyed, and withdrew out of the reach of his voice.
"No," Arnal said in a peremptory tone, which chilled his auditors. "I will not favour your projects. On the contrary, I will use all my power, and all the influence that my friendship gives me, to keep you near us, and that in your own interest."
"In our interest?" cried Emile.
"Certainly—in your interest, poor fool!" cried he, with vehemence; "These enemies, whom you suppose so far off, are here—are only a few paces from the spot on which we now are; they have followed on your track since your flight from San Miguel de Tucumán; you have everything to fear—not yourself, Don Emile, but the Marchioness de Castelmelhor and her daughter Doña Eva."
At this terrible revelation the two ladies concealed their faces in their bands, uttering a piercing cry.
"Do you think," continued the chief, vehemently, "that your disguise has deceived us for a moment?"
"Oh! We are lost!" cried the marchioness.
"Eh, no! you are saved, or at least I hope so; you are our guests. Your enemy himself is powerless to injure you, so long as you remain near us. All his efforts will break against a rock—my immovable will!" said the chief.
"Oh, chief!" cried the marchioness, taking his hand; "It is not for myself that I implore you—it is for my daughter."
"Alas! Chief," said the young girl, "if a victim must be sacrificed, choose me, save—save my mother!"
Notwithstanding his Indian stoicism, Arnal was moved by this sincere sorrow. His brow was pale, and tears rolled down his cheek.
Emile stamped with rage.
"Do not afflict yourselves thus," at last said the chief, "I have promised to save you, and I hope to succeed. I will employ all my power, only allow me to act. Courage and hope."
"Yes, thank God!" cried Emile, who could no longer contain himself, "I have confidence in you. Be comforted, then, Madame, and you also señorita, the position of affairs is improving. Rejoice, instead of weeping like this. Instead of one friend you have two."
By a spontaneous movement, the two ladies held out their hands to the young man.
"Chief!" said the marchioness, "After God, who sees us, and who judges us, all my hopes are in you. I will not speak to you of gratitude."
"Thank you, Madame," answered the chief, with dignity, "Whatever happens, do not despair."
At this moment they heard a great noise in the camp. Dove's Eye ran towards them.
"What has happened?" asked Arnal.
"Brother, the great chief Tarou Niom enters the camp," answered she.
"I will go and receive him. You, child, remain here till I ask for you."
It was, indeed, Tarou Niom, who had arrived at the camp, at the head of a troop of about fifteen hundred warriors, who were all well mounted and armed with guns.
Tarou Niom was received with all the honours usual in such a case. Then, after having given the order to his warriors to instal the camp near that of their brothers, he entered the council hut, preceded by Arnal.
The interview between the two chiefs was long. When, at last, they left the council tent, the brow of Tarou Niom was thoughtful.
The two chiefs traversed the camp, saluted by the warriors, who pressed upon them as they walked, and proceeded to the enramada, where were the marchioness and her daughter.
Warned by Emile of the approach of the captains, the ladies hastened to meet them.
"Here," said Arnal, pointing to the three, "are the persons for whom I have sought the protection of my brother."
"It is granted to them," said Tarou Niom, courteously. "Let my friends be reassured; Tarou Niom loves them; he knows how to defend them."
Then, according to the Indian custom, the two chiefs entered the enramada.
"I am hungry," said Tarou Niom.
Tyco, who followed with an unquiet eye the movements of the two chiefs, immediately appeared with provisions, which he spread before them.
Tarou Niom invited the two ladies to sit near him. Emile sat near Arnal, and the meal commenced.
Dove's Eye had flown off, light as a bird, as soon as she had seen the direction that the chiefs took.
The captains ate with a good appetite, praising the very simple dishes, however, and several times making Tyro pour out some drink.
In about half an hour the chiefs rose.
"I thank my brothers for their hospitality," said Tarou Niom; "if they permit me, I will return to visit their dwelling."
"We shall be happy and honoured by it," answered Emile, for himself and his companions.
After various compliments, the chiefs took leave, and went out.
"You see that I do not lose any time," said Arnal.
The latter grasped his hand with affection, and they separated.
The Indians grouped without had seen their two principal chiefs eat with the strangers. Henceforth the latter were sacred for them; the pact was sealed.
At the end of eight days the number of Indians concealed in the forest amounted to nearly 15,000 men; it was no longer a detachment, but a veritable army.
Tarou Niom had several times visited the foreigners, and shared their meals. The latter, therefore, enjoyed great consideration.
Each day Arnal made them a visit. Only when Emile, uneasy at the movement which he observed around him, tried to address some questions to him, in order to know what passed, the chief closed his mouth.
"Do not disturb yourself about anything; we are preparing for you a charming surprise."
The young man was obliged to content himself with this inconclusive answer.
Tyro, in his capacity as an Indian, ferreted end listened everywhere, but the secret was well kept.
At last, one day after a council, at which all the chiefs had been present, and which lasted all the morning, the various detachments which had come to join that of Gueyma went away, one after the other, in different directions. That of Tarou Niom left the glade the last, divided into three corps of five hundred men each.
Tarou Niom and Arnal, however, remained at the camp, again reduced to its primitive proportions.
Meanwhile the gauchos had left the woods, and had retaken, at a smart pace, the path which was to lead them to the Rio Dulce, until they heard the gallop of a horse.
This invisible horse annoyed them considerably. After some minutes hesitation, they resolved to make their minds clear on the subject, and to know definitely how to act towards the horseman. They therefore turned their bridles, and boldly stood athwart the path.
Scarcely had they assumed this warlike position five minutes, than they perceived in the pale light of the stars the black outline of a horseman.
"Hola!" cried a mocking voice to them; "Hola, caballeros, I am a friend!"
"Eh! It appears to me that I know that voice," said Mataseis.
"It is not unknown to me," answered Sacatripas.
"Eh!" cried the horseman, "They are model brothers, my worthy friends, the Señores Metaseis and Sacatripas. Delighted to meet you, gentlemen."
"Ha!" cried they, "It is his Excellency Don Zeno Cabral; this is a curious rencontre."
"Upon my word, yes," gaily answered the latter. "It is extraordinary, I admit."
"As the breeze begins to be sharp, we were just preparing to camp when we saw your Excellency."
"Good; if I do not discommode you, I will keep you company."
They then alighted, gathered some dry branches, with which the ground was strewed in great quantity, and they had soon lighted a fire, unsaddled and secured their horses, and were seated before the flame of their fire.
Each drew out some provisions from his alforjas, a kind of double pocket that horsemen carry behind their saddles. These provisions, were spread out in common, and the three companions, who had so fortuitously met—or at least they thought so—began to eat with a good appetite, every now and then taking large bumpers of white brandy, and then, their supper finished, they lighted their cigarettes.
"Well, señores," said Zeno Cabral, "now that we have had a good meal, what do you say to talk a bit?"
"People always gain by talking with a man like your Excellency," sententiously replied Mataseis.
"You speak more truly than you think, perhaps. So you have been dismissed, then, by that Frenchman?"
"Alas, yes."
"At least he paid you?"
"We have nothing to claim from him, your Excellency."
"Then you are open to execute a mission for me."
"We know that you are very generous, your Excellency; will you tell us what it is, and if we can do it we will."
"The mission with which I wish to charge you is not difficult. I have a despatch to send to General Don Eusebio Moratín; if you could undertake this, I confess you would greatly serve me."
"And why should we refuse to charge ourselves with it, your Excellency?"
"I do not know; you know your own affairs better than I do, and you know if it is possible."
The partisan's proposition was all the more agreeable to the gauchos, as they wanted a pretext to introduce themselves to the general. This despatch would naturally make their path smoother; moreover, recommended by Zeno Cabral, they would awaken no suspicion, and were sure of being well received.
"Well," resumed Zeno Cabral, after a pause, "what do you say?"
"We will take the despatch, your Excellency."
"Bear in mind that it must be given to General Moratín himself."
"We will give it into his own hands."
"Hum! That is, perhaps, too much to exact," murmured the partisan to himself; "I am going to write the despatch by the light of the fire; and you will permit me to offer you ten ounces."
"We accept it with gratitude, your Excellency," joyously answered the gauchos.
Zeno Cabral drew from his alforjas a little travelling companion, containing ink, pens, and paper, and immediately proceeded with his despatch, which he then folded, sealed, and handed to Mataseis.
"Now," said he, "there are the ten ounces; I rely on your attention."
"Consider it as good as done, your Excellency," answered Mataseis, pocketing the money.
In a few minutes the three men wrapped themselves in their skins and blankets, stretched their feet towards the fire, and were soon asleep.
"If these fellows do not now succeed in being received by Moratín," said the partisan, "they must be very awkward."
When the gauchos awoke at break of day, they were alone; Zeno Cabral had gone, having taken French leave.
The gauchos easily reconciled themselves to this want of politeness; they were paid in advance, and very well paid too.
We will briefly say that they met General Moratín at Santiago del Estero, and that they found no difficulty in being incorporated in the general's escort.
To the questions that the general and M. Dubois addressed them on this subject, they replied that they knew the desert in its most secret paths.
We will now abandon the Señores Mataseis and Sacatripas, and will return to Zeno Cabral.
While the gauchos were plotting, in company of Don Pablo Pincheyra, the death of General Moratín, Zeno Cabral, who at a distance had perceived them at the moment when they left the tent to ensconce themselves in the thicket, had concealed his horse, and, cutting across country, had proceeded to the spot where they were.
Zeno had been invisibly present, not only at the serio-comic turns of fortune in their game at monte, but also had heard every syllable of their conversation with the Pincheyra. It is notable that the projects of Don Pablo squared with his own, for a smile of satisfaction played on his lips at this unexpected revelation.
His negotiation terminated, the partisan had immediately resolved on quitting the bad company, to meet with which he had been compelled to go out of his way.
Loud snoring soon told him the gauchos soundly slept; then he rose stealthily, saddled his horse, leaped in the saddle without touching the stirrup, and, despite the darkness, rapidly galloped off across the desert.
This journey, made at such an hour in the darkness in so wild a region, would probably have been fatal to anyone but the bold Montonero.
The whole night passed thus. At the break of day the Montonero had made twenty leagues and crossed two rivers.
His horse, knocked up with fatigue, stumbled at every step; and the Montonero was obliged to stop if he would not have his horse fall dead under him.
He halted on the border of a wood, removed the harness from his horse, rubbed him down vigorously with a handful of dry grass, washed his nostrils, withers, and legs with water mixed with brandy, and then let him free.
The animal neighed two or three times with pleasure, and rolled himself with delight on the grass.
"It is four o'clock," said he, examining the sky; "at nine o'clock I will set off; now for some sleep." With that self-control which certain exceptional natures possess, he closed his eyes and soon slept. At nine o'clock exactly, as he had promised himself, he awoke.
He drew from his alforjas the horn of a wild bull, poured water in it to two-thirds of its capacity, added some sugar and some harina tostada or parched meal, and with a spoon he mixed it so as to make it a kind of broth. He then with great gusto swallowed this singular compound, which in these countries forms the principal nourishment of the poorer classes. This frugal meal ended, he lighted his cigarette and fell into a brown study.
A few minutes afterwards he set off. As he had done during the night, he did not follow—we will not say any marked route, for such routes do not exist in these regions—any pathway at all. He pushed right ahead, in the Indian fashion, neither swerving to the right nor to the left, leaping obstacles which rose before him, crossing rivers wherever he met with them, or scampering through ravines and quagmires, always following without deviation the right line he had marked out for himself.
For six days he travelled thus without meeting any incidents worthy of remark. On the evening of the sixth day he reached a somewhat elevated hill, the summit of which was only shaded by a single tree.
This position was marvellously chosen to serve for an observatory. From it the Montonero completely commanded the plain, and his eye could extend on all sides as far as the distant blue of the horizon, without anything disturbing his view.
This time Zeno Cabral, after having rubbed down his horse, instead of giving him his liberty as he had done each evening, kept on his harness, with the exception of the bridle to allow him to feed, tied him to a picket strongly planted in the earth, and on a blanket spread on the ground he placed a ration of maize—a feast that the horse evidently appreciated, for, having neighed with pleasure, he proceeded to eat heartily.
The young man looked at him a short time, patting him and speaking gently to him—caresses that the noble animal seemed to receive with gratitude. The Montonero then, having supped without even sitting down, rapidly descended the hill, on the summit of which burned his solitary watch fire, and penetrated hastily into the underwood, looking attentively round him, and seeking, by the rays of the setting sun, something to which he appeared to attach great importance.
For about an hour he devoted himself to an active search, walking cautiously round the hill. He then stopped, uttering a cry of joy. He had at last found what he wanted. Before him rose a group of the Amyris elemifera, or balsam tree, commonly called by the Indians "candle wood." The Indians cut the branches, and sometimes the shrub itself, making use of it as a kind of torch. The light given by these torches is brilliant and strong, and the torch itself lasts a considerable time.
Zeno Cabral felled with his sabre several of these branches, stripped them of their leaves, made a bundle of them, which he placed on his shoulder, and again ascended to the summit of the hill.
Meanwhile the sun had disappeared, and the day had been almost without any transition replaced by night.
Darkness soon blinded all objects, drowned all the features of the landscape, and the desert was covered as with a funeral winding sheet.
The Montonero, seated before the fire, with his back leaning on the trunk of the tree, in the position the most comfortable he could secure, warmed his feet carelessly, smoking his cigarette.
Suddenly a shrill whistle rent the air.
At the same moment Zeno Cabral started up as if moved by a spring.
Rekindling the half-extinguished embers of the fire, on which he threw an armful of dead wood, he picked up a branch of balsam tree, lighted it, walked to the commencement or the slope of the hill, and then, having rapidly waved it above his head, he threw it in the air, where it traced a long streak of fire.
Almost immediately a second whistle, but nearer, was heard.
Zeno Cabral took a second torch, and lighting it, he waved it above his head, and darted it into the air, like the first.
This signal given, the partisan returned to his fire, passed his pistols in his girdle, took his gun, on which he leaned, and waited.
He did not wait long. In about five minutes the sound of steps and a trembling of the grass indicated that several persons were approaching.
"Has the moon of wild oats already so far advanced that the darkness is so thick?" said a voice.
"It is easy to procure light," answered Zeno Cabral, lighting a torch, and raising it above his head.
"The night is cold; here is fire; warm yourselves."
"Thank you," answered one of the men: "fire is good at this hour of the night."
The persons who had arrived then entered the circle of light spread by the torch. Two wore the costume of Guaycurus chiefs; they were Gueyma and the Cougar. The third, dressed in the European fashion, was no less than Don Sylvio Quiroga.
"Thanks be given to these caballeros," said he, after respectfully bowing to his chief; "I think that they are nyctalopes, and that, like cats and other animals, they have the faculty of seeing in the dark. I was completely lost when they met me, and was groping like a blind man rudely striking myself against the trees."
"Well, rest yourself, Don Sylvio, while I talk with these caballero," answered the Montonero, laughing, "and warm yourself at the same time."
"I should not like to be indiscreet, general."
"Do not fear that, my friend; we shall converse in a language that you will not understand."
"As that is the case, I will venture," answered the old soldier.
The Indians had remained motionless and indifferent to this short conversation.
"Will you be seated near me, captains," said Zeno Cabral; "I am happy to see you."
When the visitors were seated, Zeno Cabral, after offering them tobacco, which they accepted, resumed—
"Chiefs, you some days ago asked an interview with me; here I am at your orders. Will you, therefore, give me your views, as you know as well as I do how time presses."
"Señor Don Zeno Cabral, for many a year we have known one another," answered the Cougar.
"Yes," said the partisan, whose brow lowered; "it is you, Diogo, who, when I was still young, came through a thousand perils to tell me of the sad death of my sister. From that day we have constantly been in relations with each other. I will add, Diogo," he said, with suppressed emotion, "that I have never met a heart more devoted, a friend more sincere than you, or a soul more grand and noble."
"I have done my duty towards you, and towards my mistress, Señor Don Zeno."
"On one point, Diogo—on one only—I may have reason to reproach you. You have never told me how my poor sister died, or where is her grave."
"Caballero," answered Diogo, with ill-concealed embarrassment, "a solemn oath closes my mouth. But a day will come when you will know all."