Zeno Cabral, after his interview with the young painter, departed at gallop from the Valle del Tambo, followed naturally by the Spanish officers, who had no plausible motives for remaining with Don Pablo Pincheyra.
The Montonero galloped thus during about four hours, incessantly exciting his horse, the speed of which seemed almost a miracle, until arrived at a crossroad, where the route branched into two paths. Here he stopped, and leaning towards his two companions, who had followed him at almost as great a pace:
"Caballeros," said he, ceremoniously saluting them, "I beg you to accept all my thanks for the loyal manner in which you have kept the word you have given me; but here is your road," said he, pointing to the path on the left, "and this is mine," added he, indicating that to the right. "Let us separate now; I wish you a good journey."
"I thank you, monsieur," responded the count courteously; "only, Will you permit me to ask you a question?"
"Speak."
"It is not a question that I would ask you; it is a prayer that I desire to make."
"Prayer or question, speak, monsieur; I will answer you."
"Sir, my companion and I are Spaniards, from Europe—that is to say, strangers to this country. If you leave us here, we shall inevitably be lost, ignorant as we are of the route that we ought to follow."
"When do you wish to go?"
"Mon Dieu, señor! That is just what troubles us," said the captain, joining in the conversation.
"Just so; then you desire—"
"Mon Dieu! We desire to reach its advanced posts, and that as soon as possible."
The Montonero reflected for some time.
"Gentlemen," he at last answered, "what you wish is very difficult; it is evident that you will have great trouble in passing through our troops. I only see one way of getting you out of the difficulty, but I fear that you would not accept it."
"What way is this?" cried the two Spaniards.
"This is it—to follow me where I go; only I exact your word of honour, as soldiers and gentlemen, that you will be dumb as to what you may see and hear. On this condition I engage to enable you to reach, with very little delay, the advanced posts of your army. Do you accept?"
"Yes, we accept heartily, caballero," cried the two officers.
"Enough, gentlemen," said Zeno Cabral; "we make a new contract which, I am convinced, will be as loyally kept as the first. Come, then, gentlemen; we have already been here a long time."
"Proceed, sir," answered the count; "we follow."
They set out.
They proceeded thus till the evening, without exchanging a single word. Why should they speak? They had nothing to say.
At the moment when the sun disappeared behind the snowy peaks of the Cordilleras, on a sign from the partisan, the horsemen stopped.
Night was coming on, but the darkness was yet only so deep that the landscape, half veiled by the shadows of evening, appeared all the grander.
The path had by degrees become broader; it now formed a route bordered right and left by high forests of cork trees, through which it passed under magnificent arches of foliage; a thick, coarse grass reached nearly to the chests of the horses; and a waterfall, bounding in disordered masses from the top of a chaos of rocks, formed to the right of the travellers a large silvery sheet, in which the pale moon was reflected.
"We have arrived, gentlemen," said Zeno Cabral; "you can quit your saddles."
"Arrived!" said the count, looking round him.
"For the evening, at all events, count," answered the partisan; "for the few paces we have to go we can take on foot."
Speaking thus the Montonero had attached the bridle of his horse to the pommel of his saddle, and removed the stirrups.
"But our horses?" asked the captain.
"Do not disturb yourself about them."
"But they cannot remain thus."
"They will not remain here; be easy, care will be taken of them."
The count and the captain alighted.
"Well," resumed Zeno, "now wait a bit."
He then took a whistle which was hanging at his neck by a gold chain, concealed under his clothes, and gave a long and shrill whistle.
In a moment a man appeared.
"Ah! Ah! It is you, Don Sylvio," said the partisan, in a good-humoured tone.
"Yes, general, it is me," said the old soldier.
"Very good; let your men take care of the horses, and let us be conducted to the camp."
The officer turned towards the shrubbery from which he had so unexpectedly emerged.
"Hola!" cried he in a loud voice, "Come here, you fellows!"
The six soldiers, who were doubtless in ambuscade not far off, darted suddenly from the underwood, and, having respectfully bowed to Zeno Cabral, ranged themselves behind the old officer, ready to obey blindly the orders which they might receive.
"Is the camp far?" asked the Montonero, addressing Don Sylvio.
"At a gunshot at the most, general."
"You will guide us; as to you," he added, turning to the soldiers, "you know where you have to put the horses."
The soldiers bowed without answering, and quickly approached the horses.
Don Zeno looked round him as if he wished to fathom the darkness, and assure himself that no enemy was watching him; then, motioning Don Sylvio to go on before him:
"Come, gentlemen," he said; "let us go on."
The three then entered the wood, following the captain. Notwithstanding the increasing darkness, the latter found his way with a certainty which showed either that, like certain animals, he had the faculty of seeing in the dark, or that he had a thorough knowledge of the locality through which he was passing.
A quarter of an hour thus passed, during which the four men marched in Indian file—that is to say, following each other one by one—without exchanging a word. At the end of this time they began to perceive the reddish tints of several fires shining through the trees, which now became thicker.
"Halt! Who goes there?" suddenly cried a man.
"Zeno and liberty!" answered the captain, coldly.
"Pass!" said the sentinel, lowering his gun.
The travellers continued their journey. At about ten paces further on, a second sentinel stopped them, and then a third barred their passage at the moment when they reached the skirt of a large glade, in the midst of which was established a camp, which, by the number of fires lighted, appeared to be considerable. This sentinel, when he had exchanged the password with the captain, did not raise his gun as the others had done; he contented himself with turning half round.
"Officer of the guard!" he said; "Reconnoitre!"
There was a movement in the glade, the clatter of arms was heard, followed immediately by the hasty step of several men, and ten soldiers, commanded by an officer, came towards the sentinel.
"¡Vive Dios!" said in a low voice the captain Don Lucio Ortega, to the partisan, "Receive my felicitations, señor; you maintain a rare discipline in your camp."
"What would you have, captain?" asked Don Zeno, smiling; "It ought to be so. Would it not be very stupid for us some day, for a want of a little vigilance, to be surprised by the enemy?"
The officer who had been called by the sentinel arrived at this moment, followed by several soldiers, apparently ready to aid him, if necessary.
But this time it was Zeno Cabral who took on himself to reply. On perceiving the officer, he motioned away Don Sylvio, and taking his place:
"Each one in his turn," said he in a low voice, placing his hand in a friendly way on the old officer's shoulder.
"That is right," answered the latter, bowing respectfully, and moving off.
"Who goes there?" cried the chief of the patrol, who had come to the call of the sentinel.
"Ah!" exclaimed the Montonero, apostrophising the officer, "Are you there, then, Captain Don Estevan Albino?"
"Cuerpo de Cristo!" cried the officer; "It is the general's voice."
"There! I knew you would recognise me."
"Ah! This is a fortunate arrival!" said the captain.
"You know," said Don Zeno, "that I expect that you will permit me to pass."
"¡Vive Dios! General, are you not chief among us? We will escort you."
"Come, gentlemen," said he, addressing the two Spaniards, "I believe we shall be well received."
"I should like to see it otherwise," grumbled Don Sylvio, through his moustache.
The news of the arrival of the general had now been spread through the camp; those who had been watching had risen; the sleepers, rudely awakened, had imitated them, rubbing their eyes; and all hastened, with torches and cries of joy, into the presence of the chief whom they adored.
Zeno Cabral then entered his camp, amidst the bright reflection of the torches, agitated by the night breeze.
As soon as the chief found himself in the midst of his staff, who hastened round him to congratulate him, he, by a gesture, ordered silence.
"Gentlemen," said he, pointing to the two men who accompanied him, and who stood modestly behind him, "these two caballeros are my friends, and not my prisoners. Although devoted to another cause than our own, and not sharing our political convictions, they are, for a time at least, placed under the security of our honour. I commend them to your honourable care; see that they want for nothing, and are treated with the respect due to them."
"Thank you, general," said the two men; "we did not expect less from your courtesy."
The introduction over, the soldiers occupied themselves with the newcomers.
Probably the arrival of the general, as the Montoneros called him, was expected, for a vast tent in the middle of the camp had been raised for him; but, notwithstanding the weariness and hunger that he felt, he did not consent to retire then, till he had seen the Spaniards installed as comfortably as circumstances would permit.
By degrees, quiet was re-established in the camp; the Montoneros resumed their places round their bivouac fires, and were soon asleep under their mantles.
The sentinels alone kept watch.
We are wrong; there was another that kept watch—Zeno Cabral.
Leaning on a table, his head between his hands, he was examining attentively, by the uncertain light of a smoky lamp, a map unrolled before him.
The map was one of the viceroyalty of Buenos Aires.
Now and then, on certain places on the map which he was so carefully studying, the Montonero stuck pins, the heads of which had been dipped in black or red wax.
Don Zeno had, for about an hour, given himself up to this work, which so much absorbed him that he had forgotten fatigue and sleep, when the curtain of the tent was drawn aside, and a man appeared.. At the sound of his steps the general raised his head.
"Ah! It is you, Don Juan Armero?" said he, saluting the person in a friendly way; "What news? You return from a reconnoitering trip, do you not?"
"Just so, general," answered Don Juan, after having given a military salute to his chief; "I have just arrived, and I bring news."
"Speak without fear. Everyone is asleep."
"That may be, but if you will allow me, I will tell you the news in the open air—not here."
"How is that?" said Don Zeno; "We are, I think, in a very good position to talk here."
"Excuse me, general," said Don Juan Armero, "but these walls of canvas, which intercept the view, without preventing words from being heard, cause me a fear which I cannot surmount. I am afraid, though I may be deceived, that there may be a spy on the watch."
"Is what you have to say to me important, then?" asked Don Zeno.
"I think it is of some importance."
"Hum!" said Zeno, in a reverie; "Come then."
The night was calm; millions of stars glittered in the dark blue sky; the breeze gently agitated the leafy tops of the trees; the moon, on the wane, spread an uncertain light on the landscape.
The two men proceeded a few steps silently side by side. Zeno Cabral was reflecting, and Don Juan Armero respectfully waited till his chief should address him.
"Well," the partisan asked, "what is this news, Don Juan? You can without fear tell me here."
"Just so, general," he answered. "I have been, as you know, on a journey of discovery. The Brazilian army has left its cantonments in the Banda Oriental; a division of this army is advancing by forced marches in this direction to take possession of the fords of the rivers, and the mouths of the defiles, so as to permit a second division, which follows it at a day's march behind, to invade Tucumán."
"Oh! Oh!" murmured the partisan, "That is, indeed, serious. Is this news reliable?"
"Yes, general."
"Well, go on; but just a word—have you learned by what general this Brazilian division is commanded?"
"Yes, general."
"And his name is?" he asked.
"It is the Marquis Don Roque de Castelmelhor."
Something like a smile crossed the austere face of the Montonero, and gave him an inexpressible look of hope and hatred.
"What direction do these troops follow?" he said.
"They are preparing to cross the desert plains of the Abipones."
"Good!" he murmured; "However quick they will march, we will rejoin them; and," slightly raising his voice, "what news of the Guaycurus?"
"None, general."
"That is strange; have you nothing else to communicate to me?"
"Pardon, general; I have indeed some more important news for you."
"Come, speak! I am listening."
"Don Pablo Pincheyra, the Bear of Casa-Frama, has suddenly abandoned his inaccessible repair."
"I know it," said the general.
"But what you doubtless do not know is, that, furious at having been so completely deceived by you, he is pursuing you—with only a few men, it is true."
"Good!" said Zeno Cabral, smiling; "Let them come, Don Juan, let them come. Anything else?"
"Nothing, general, unless it is to ask you if your expedition has succeeded, and if you are satisfied."
"Enchanted, Don Juan, enchanted! I hope that, in a few days, we shall have attained the end that I have for so long contemplated."
"God grant it, general."
"Thank you, Don Juan," said he. "I hope God will not destroy my hopes. Good night."
The officer bowed and immediately retired, and Zeno Cabral regained his tent with slow steps.
"Ah!" murmured he, falling on a seat; "Would that fortune may at last favour me, and that I may be allowed to capture them all by a throw of the net!"
He remained a short time pensive; then, having trimmed his lamp, he again bent over his map.
The most profound silence reigned without; except the sentinels, everyone in the camp was asleep.
Till the morning, the general's lamp burned in his tent.
He alone, of the partisans, kept unquiet vigil.
About ten days had passed between the events that we have just related and the day on which we resume our narrative. The scene is no longer in the Cordilleras, but in the midst of the vast deserts which separate Brazil from the Spanish possessions—a kind of neutral territory, which the two nations had for a long time desperately disputed, and which was held by warlike and independent Indians.
The spot to which we have transported our scene was an immense plain enclosed by high mountains, whose peaks were covered in snow. A large river divided the plain into two nearly equal parts, though with a thousand capricious windings; its silvery waters, slightly rippled by the morning breeze and glittering in the first rays of the sun, reflected changing colours as if thousands of diamonds had been scattered on its bosom.
The calm of this majestic desert was only disturbed at this moment by a numerous troop of horsemen, who skirted at a gallop the left bank of the river.
These horsemen, whose nationality it was impossible to discover so far off, appeared to be warriors.
Whoever they might be, they appeared to be in great haste, and dashed forward with such rapidity that, if they continued thus for a few hours, some of them would be inclined to fall back and lag behind.
The more this troop advanced into the plain the easier it was, through the cloud of dust that enveloped them, which was at times driven away by the wind, to discover the circumstances under which they were travelling. The troop was composed of more than four thousand men. Each horseman of the principal corps had a foot soldier riding on the same horse behind him.
This circumstance was not at all extraordinary.
Arrived at a point of land jutting into the river, the advanced guard stopped.
Two hours later the tents were ready, intrenchments made, sentinels posted, and the corps d'armée was firmly established in an excellent position out of the reach of a surprise.
It was ten o'clock in the morning.
Except the corps d'armée, the immense plain appeared quite deserted.
Nevertheless, several measures of precaution had been taken. Sentinels, placed at certain distances, watched over the common safety, and their horses, which are generally left to browse at liberty during a halt, were attached to pickets fixed in the earth. The bivouac fires were lighted in hollows and fed by an extremely dry wood, which only emitted light and scarcely perceptible smoke.
A remarkable circumstance was that several whites, or rather several persons clothed in the costume of the Spanish-Americans of the Banda Oriental, were among the Indians, and were treated as guests and friends.
Then, on the other side of the river, at the opposite angle of the triangle, of which the corps formed, so to say, the summit, was a third troop of horsemen, also very numerous; but the latter had simply halted among the high grass.
These horsemen were Montoneros, that is to say, partisans.
As to the former, they had not neglected any precaution to escape observation. Concealed behind a thick curtain of shrubbery, they were ambuscaded like hunters on the watch.
The horses, saddled and ready to be mounted, had their nostrils covered with girdles, to prevent them from neighing. Near each horse a lance was struck in the ground, the point downwards.
This last troop evidently knew the precarious situation in which they were, and the disagreeable neighbours that chance or fatality had given them.
Meanwhile the Montoneros, far from showing the least inquietude or the slightest fear of the enemies camped so near them, appeared gay and very unconcerned.
But in all other respects the plain preserved its calmness; no suspicious undulation agitated the grass; the woods preserved their mysterious silence.
Hours passed; it was about two o'clock in the afternoon. A heavy heat oppressed the earth; a heated atmosphere which no breeze refreshed bent towards the ground the half-burnt grass. At this moment some thirty horsemen, amongst whom glittered the golden embroidery of the uniforms of several officers, left the camp of which we have previously spoken, and proceeding in a slanting direction, gained the river.
These horsemen wore the Brazilian uniform. Whether they were persuaded that the plain was really solitary, whether they reckoned on the proximity of their camp to be defended against any dangers which might threaten them, or whether there was any other motive, they marched with very little order, the officers, amongst whom was a general, keeping in advance, and the horsemen forming the escort going on haphazard.
Nearly at the same time, when these foragers or scouts left their camp to make, at so unusual an hour, a trip into the plain, at some distance before them, on the bank of the river, a troop of horsemen, equal in number—that is to say, composed of about thirty men, in the picturesque costume of the Buenos Aireans, appeared marching to meet them.
This second troop marched as rapidly as their horses, harassed by a long journey, could proceed.
The two troops soon found themselves in sight.
"Eh! Eh!" said the Brazilian general, addressing a captain who was riding by his side, "I think those are our people; what do you think of it?"
"I think so too, general," answered the officer; "come, that will set me right with them."
"Yes, they are men of their word; I think it augurs well for the result of our conference. Remember that we are very far from Tucumán, and that they must have made great haste to arrive here on the day."
"Just so, general; we are, if I am not deceived, on the territory of the Indian bravos, on neutral ground."
"Yes, you are right," answered the other, suddenly becoming pensive. "I think I have even a confused remembrance of these parts."
"You, general!"
"Yes, yes, but a long time ago; I was young then; I did not think Of taking service. Impelled by I know not what furious ardour, I traversed these desert regions in search of adventures—for my pleasure," he added.
The captain looked at him for a moment with an expression of gentle pity.
Some minutes thus passed. At last the general raised his head, and again addressing his aide-de-camp—that was the position that the captain occupied towards him:
"These gauchos are rude men, are they not, Don Sebastiao?" he asked.
"It is said, general," answered the officer, "that these men are remarkable for power, skill, and courage. I cannot vouch for it, only having heard so much."
"I know them; I have seen them at work; they are demons."
"It is possible," said the captain smiling; "but I think that, without going very far, it would be easy to find in Brazil men who for bravery, power, and cunning are equal to them, if they are not superior."
"Oh! Oh! You are of course joking, Don Sebastiao?"
"I am not at all joking; I express my conviction."
"A conviction! And of whom do you speak then?"
"Why, the Paulistas, general—the Paulistas whom you know as well as I do—those extraordinary men who have accomplished so many extraordinary things since the discovery of America, and to whom Brazil owes her incalculable riches."
The aide-de-camp would have continued speaking in the same manner, but the general did not listen to him; his countenance had become of a livid paleness; a convulsive trembling had, like an electric shock, run through his body, and he had sunk upon his horse as if he were on the point of losing consciousness.
"Good Heaven! What is the matter with you, general?" cried the officer.
"I do not know," answered the latter, in a choking voice: "I do not feel well."
"The heat, no doubt, general?"
"Yes, that is it, I think; but never mind, I am better—much better; it will be nothing, I hope."
"God grant it, general! You really frightened me."
"Thank you, Don Sebastiao, I know your kindness. For some time I have been subject to sudden faintness, that I do not know how to account for; but as you have seen, the fit is always very short."
The captain bowed without answering, and the conversation ceased.
Meanwhile the horsemen whom Don Sebastiao had perceived, advanced rapidly, and they were soon within fifty paces of the Portuguese.
Then they made a halt, and for a short time they appeared to consult together. Then a horseman separated from the group and set off direct towards the Brazilians.
The general had attentively followed with his eye the movements of the newcomers. On a sign from him Don Sebastiao left his troop, which remained motionless, and spurring his horse, boldly approached the gaucho, after having attached a white handkerchief to the point of his sword.
The two envoys, who were recognised as such, met at an equal distance from the two troops still remaining in the rear, but ready for attack as for defence.
After having attentively examined the man in face of whom he was, Don Sebastiao at last resolved, seeing that the other remained silent, to speak first.
"Caballero," said he in Spanish, slightly bowing his head, "I am Don Sebastiao de Vianna, captain in the Brazilian service, sent to you by my general, who has himself come to meet you to know if you and your companions are enemies or friends."
"The question that you do me the honour to address to me, señor captain," answered the gaucho, "is extremely delicate; I cannot myself answer it, and will leave to others more competent than myself to determine it."
"That is very well put, caballero; however, I have the honour to tell you that, holding this plain with superior forces, we have a right, for our own safety, to exercise a strict watch over the territory which surrounds us. I am pleased to hope that among the persons who accompany you, there is at all events one who is in a position to give me an answer."
"I hope so too, caballero," answered the gaucho, smiling; "nothing is more easy than to assure yourself of that. The heat is suffocating. At a few paces from here there is a woody copse. Let us stop there for an hour, swearing on our honour to separate without striking a blow, if our mutual explanations are not satisfactory."
"¡Vive Dios, caballero! Your proposition appears to me very honourable, and I shall heartily accept it."
The two horsemen then ceremoniously bowed, turned their bridles, and rejoined at a gallop those who had sent them forward.
A few minutes afterwards, the two troops met and mingled with each other; the horsemen alighted, and stretched themselves carelessly on the grass under the shade of the giant trees which skirted the wood; the Brazilian officers and three or four of the gauchos who appeared to be the chiefs of the troop, after politely bowing, without exchanging a word, penetrated the covert, where they soon disappeared from the observation of their people, who had not even turned their heads to see what they were doing.
If these officers had not been so absorbed by their thoughts on entering the woods, they would not have adventured into the covert without having carefully examined the underwood and the thicket which surrounded them. But, thanks to the profound secrecy with which they had kept their intentions—and, more than all, confident in the numerous forces that accompanied them, they were convinced that they ran no danger.
Alter a walk of about a quarter of an hour, the officers reached a rather extensive glade surrounded by thickets almost impenetrable.
The dead cinders of a fire, and some remains of burnt wood, showed that some days or perhaps hours before other travellers had been here to seek a temporary shelter.
"We are not the first who have discovered this glade," said the general, stopping and courteously bowing to the persons who accompanied him; "but never mind, señor, I think the place is well chosen for our conversation that we wish to have, and I think we shall do well to stop here."
"I am thoroughly of your opinion, señor general; let us stay here, it would be difficult to have a better place."
The six officers then formed a group in the middle of the glade, and then commenced the presentations, for those men, who knew each other well by name, and who had come so far to treat on important matters, had never seen one another before that day.
These officers were, on the part of the Spanish creoles—the General. Don Eusebio Moratín; the Duc de Mantone—the Frenchman, who insisted that he should only be called Louis Dubois; and Don Juan Armero, a Montonero officer of the squadron of Zeno Cabral.
The Brazilians were represented by General Don Roque, the Marquis de Castelmelhor; Captain Don Sebastiao Vianna, his aide-de-camp; and another officer of an inferior grade, who plays too insignificant a part in this history for us to present him more formally to the reader.
The Marquis de Castelmelhor was no longer the elegant and handsome cavalier that we have seen in the former part of this narrative. Years, accumulating on his head, had furrowed his face with long wrinkles; the fire of his eye was deadened, so as to leave only a restless expression, sad and almost fierce; his hair had whitened, and his tall figure began to bow under the weight of the incessant fatigues of military life, or perhaps, as his enemies said—and the general had a great many—under the heavy burden of sharp remorse.
M. Dubois was still the same personage of ascetic features, of pale complexion, and of cold and stately manners.
After their mutual presentation, the six men examined each other curiously, secretly studying one another's features, to see where one could the best attack the other.
These officers, silent and sombre, thus looking at each other stealthily before commencing the conversation, rather resembled duellists making ready to fire at each other, than diplomatists assembled to discuss important political questions.
The marquis soon decided that if this silence were prolonged it would become more and more embarrassing for all; so having several times passed his hand over his forehead, as if to chase away some importunate thought, he took upon himself to speak.
"Caballeros," he said, claiming attention by a gesture, "I am glad that we are at last permitted to meet face to face. The occasion that presents itself is too precious for us not to take advantage of it like men of spirit, so as to try and smooth the apparently insurmountable difficult ties which have so long divided us, and which, animated as we are by truly patriotic sentiments, will not, I hope, exist many minutes longer."
"That is well said!" cried a mocking voice, coming from the interior of the wood, "And I should have been much annoyed had I not arrived in time to assist at so philanthropic a meeting."
The officers looked about with astonishment, which almost amounted to fear, on hearing the ironical accents of this voice, and started back, quickly putting their hands to their firearms.
"Is this treason?" cried the marquis, with an inquiring look at General Moratín.
At the same moment the shrubbery was parted, and a man bounded, rather than entered into the glade.
"Don Zeno Cabral!" cried the astounded Buenos Aireans.
"Yes, it is I, señores," mockingly answered the Montonero, removing his hat, and bowing courteously all round; "you did not expect me it seems?" And then, taking a step or two in advance; "I come opportunely, I think. Do not disturb yourselves; go on, I beg. I am sorry I do not know the name of this caballero, but you will inform me, eh?" he added, bowing with an expression of biting sarcasm to the marquis. "The caballero was in the act of saying some very sensible thing which I should be very sorry further to interrupt."
How had Don Zeno Cabral, whom we left in the midst of the Cordilleras, arrived thus unexpectedly to assist at this mysterious consultation? Scarcely had the sun risen, than the Montonero left the tent in which he had watched during the whole night, and ordered a soldier to go and seek Don Juan Armero.
The latter arrived in a few minutes.
"Listen, Don Juan," said Don Zeno Cabral, passing Don Juan's arm through his own, and, taking him on one side, he whispered to him, after assuring himself that no one could hear them, "You are devoted to me, are you not?"
"For life and death, general, as you know."
"Yes, I know, my friend; but the mission which I wish to confide to you is one of such high importance that I wanted to hear you repeat it."
The officer bowed without answering; the general resumed:
"Since I left you to go to the camp of the Pincheyras," said he, "I have learnt several things. While we are here to fight loyally, at the peril of our lives, to secure the independence of the country, it seems that down there, at Tucumán, those who govern us are, at this very time, spreading some very pretty nets. The proofs of their treason are nearly all in my hands; but they are not yet sufficient for the blow that I wish to give them. I have conceived a bold project, the success of which entirely depends on you."
"Good!" said the officer; "Then be tranquil, general; I will answer for all!"
"Look here, Don Juan," added he, handing him a large letter, carefully sealed. "Take this paper; it contains your instructions; I have thought it better to give them to you in writing than verbally, so that you may not forget any circumstance when the moment of action arrives. You understand me?"
"Perfectly, general; when shall I set out?"
"Directly; you will take six men with you."
"What for, general?"
"You will afterwards know."
"Ah! Good! Go on."
"Yesterday there arrived with me in the camp, two loyalist officers, with whom I scarcely know what to do. However, as they are my guests, I wish to treat them with respect; you will accompany them till you see the Spanish advance posts, and there you will leave them. You understand that, during all the time they remain with you, you will pay them the most friendly attentions, and, if needs be, you will defend them."
"That shall be done, general. Well?"
"You will not open the letter containing your instructions till you have reached the plains; you will read those instructions carefully."
"I understand, general. Have you any other orders?"
"No, my friend; it only remains for me to urge you to be brave. I know you too well to doubt your courage, but be prudent; above all, succeed."
"I shall succeed; I swear it, on my honour."
"I rely on your word, my friend; and now, my dear Don Juan, it only remains to me to wish you a safe journey and good fortune, and to shake hands," added he.
"Eh, general? These are my companions during the journey, I suppose?" said Don Juan.
"Yes, they are," answered the Montonero, advancing towards the two Spaniards, who were coming to him evidently with the intention, of saluting him.
After exchanging preliminary compliments, Zeno Cabral frankly told them how the matter stood, certain that they could not be but satisfied with the prospect of so soon safely joining the army of which they formed a part. The Montonero was not deceived in his suppositions in this respect.
An hour afterwards, a little troop of horsemen, commanded by Don Juan Armero, and having with them the two Spanish officers, set out from the camp.
Zeno Cabral, for reasons which seemed to be very grave, remained two days more in the camp. Meanwhile, he was far from being inactive; scouts, chosen carefully from the most agile, brave, and skilful of his men, were continually sent out in all directions, and on their return to the camp they were immediately interrogated by the general.
At last, on the evening of the second day after the departure of Don Juan Armero, one of the scouts who had been absent since the previous evening, returned to the camp.
At the sight of this man the countenance of Don Zeno, who, during the whole day had been sad and uneasy, suddenly brightened. Zeno advanced rapidly towards him, and scarcely allowing him time to alight, he seized him by the arm and dragged him into his tent.
The scout at length went out and rejoined his companions, who, in their turn, wished to interrogate him, but all their efforts were in vain.
He had, probably, received from his chief strict injunctions in this respect, for he confined himself to answering yes or no to all the questions that were addressed to him.
On the next day, before sunrise, Zeno Cabral at last gave the order, so impatiently expected by the Montoneros, to raise the camp; then, when all the men had mounted, the chief called Captain Quiroga to him.
The old officer, whose eyes had been continuously fixed on his commandant, immediately ran to the call.
Zeno Cabral was one of those decided people who have a horror of long speeches.
"Don Sylvio," said he to his subordinate, "certain reasons, which it would be useless to explain, necessitate my entrusting the squadron to you."
"What, general!" cried he; "You have scarcely returned, and you leave us already?"
"It must be so. While we are here, there are occurring in the towns yonder strange things, which it is my duty to watch. I have pointed out to you the route to be followed. Perhaps I shall rejoin you sooner than you think."
"God grant it, general."
"Thank you; good-bye for the present and keep up your spirits."
"Are you setting out alone, general?"
"Pardieu!" he exclaimed, smiling.
The old officer shook his head several times, with a melancholy air.
"Take care, general," he at last said; "these imprudences, I have a presentiment, will someday cost you dear."
"Bah! You are foolish to disquiet yourself thus, Don Sylvio. You will soon see me reappear, gay and in good trim, take my word for it."
And without listening any more to the old officer, who tried still to retain him, the young man drove the spurs into the sides of his horse, which started off at a gallop, and soon disappeared at the turn of the path.
For nearly three hours, notwithstanding the difficulties of the route which he followed, and which, in certain places became almost impracticable, the Montonero kept his horse going at a rapid pace; then, when he thought himself at a sufficient distance from his companions not to risk being overtaken by them, he pulled the bridle, put his horse into a walk, and, allowing his head to fall on his breast, he gave himself up to his reflections.
In thus suddenly leaving his squadron, Don Zeno Cabral acted under the influence of serious thoughts. Since his departure from Tucumán, the political situation had been much altered. The independence of the Buenos Airean provinces—thanks to the treason of several chiefs of the revolutionary movement—was more than ever put in question.
Not that the chiefs had any thought of treating with the royalists, and of again placing their country under the detested yoke of Spain—such was not their intention, far from it. As always happens in critical periods, in a country where people have overturned one government, they seek to establish another; and ambitious designs, at first drowned in the ever-increasing flood of patriotism, already began to float to the surface. Leaders who, until now, had fought with the utmost devotion and enthusiasm for their country, thinking the moment favourable, spread their nets and planted their batteries, in the hope of turning the revolution to their own profit, and of making for themselves a dictator's toga, or a king's mantle from the bloodstained banners of independence, of which they had been the foremost soldiers.
The Montonero had accepted the revolution with that joy and enthusiasm which characterise exceptional natures. The first dangerous squadron which the insurgents had opposed to the royal troops was that which he still commanded, and which he had, with rare devotion and disinterestedness, raised and equipped at his own expense. He had never raised himself up with the political intrigues which, from the first day of the rising, had distracted the colonies. Without personal ambition, deeply loving his country, Zeno Cabral was content to fight for it under all circumstances, and to place himself boldly in the front, generously offering his heart to the first blows of the enemy.
A man of Zeno Cabral's character, then, ought to put in the shade all those people of low ambition, and the vultures in their track, who seek an easy and productive prey in all great popular movements, who, in their sordid selfishness can see nothing but their own interest, and for whom the sacred name of country is but a mere sound.
The bold Montonero, whose daring enterprise had so often re-established the falling fortunes of the revolution—he who had always marched ahead without fear or doubt, when the boldest around him felt their faith fail—also had a number of secret and implacable enemies among men, whom the ever-strange circumstances of a revolution had thrown up from the crowd, and who now thought themselves called on to take the reins of the new government.
Some thought him a man of narrow views, and without political stability; others attributed to him an immeasurable ambition, and thought He was meditating projects, which he wanted only a favourable opportunity to put into motion; while others again thought him a harmless simpleton, ready to fight or to be killed, without knowing why.
All feared him.
Two men especially had towards him a profound antipathy and an instinctive fear which nothing could dissipate.
These two men were the Duc de Mantone and General Don Eusebio Moratín.
Enemies at first, these two persons had not been long in understanding each other, and uniting in one idea the accomplishment of the same project, that they foresaw would at the moment of execution be met with an insurmountable obstacle which the Montonero alone could surmount. These two people, in fact, seemed made to understand one another.
M. Dubois, once an oratorian, and then a conventionalist, having served by turns all the governments which had existed for twenty years in France, and having betrayed one after the other, constrained to abandon Europe, had only sought refuge in America in the hope of regaining a fortune, and a position equivalent to that which he had lost. To attain this end it was necessary for him to fish in the troubled waters of revolution, and the insurrection of the Spanish colonies offered him the occasion that he had so ardently sought.
Resolved to obliterate the past, the fortuitous meeting that he had had with the French painter had been excessively disagreeable to him, on account of the rather edifying histories that Emile could, had he been asked, relate of the past life of Dubois. He had skilfully hidden the annoyance that the meeting had caused him, had feigned the greatest joy at finding a fellow countryman in the land of exile, and under the semblance of great friendship, he had quietly tried to ruin him, in which he had nearly succeeded. The painter had only by a miracle escaped the trap set under his feet with such deep subtlety.
Arrived at Tucumán, and put in communication with General Don Eusebio Moratín, M. Dubois, with that experience of human nature that he possessed in so high a degree, had reckoned him up in a moment, and had said: That is the man who will give me back what I have lost.
His decision was at once made, and he manoeuvred accordingly. Don Eusebio aimed at nothing less than to be named president of the republic. M. Dubois resolved to aid him to arrive at power. A compact was agreed on between the two men, one of whom was a kind of savage animal, spoiled by a false civilisation, and the other a cold, wily, calculating man of ambition.
Zeno Cabral, who by his presence would have disturbed and probably defeated the dark schemes of these two persons, had under a pretext been removed, as well as his squadron, and their negotiations had been commenced.
Unhappily for the projects of Don Eusebio and M. Dubois, Zeno Cabral, although he was at a distance, was not the less to be feared, and perhaps was even more to be feared on account of his absence.
If the Montonero had a great many enemies, he numbered also some friends—honest men, and, like himself, devoted to the public cause. These men, without having succeeded in completely unveiling the secret plots of the general and his acolyte, had succeeded, great as was the prudence of the two latter, in obtaining such an inkling of their projects as had enabled them pretty well to guess to what end their efforts were directed.
Incomplete as was this information, the friends of the Montonero had not hesitated, seeing the gravity of the circumstances, to warn him and tell him all that had passed in the town, at the meeting of the representatives of the ancient viceroyalty of Buenos Aires; but they had also told him all that they had succeeded in learning as to the secret projects of the French diplomatist and of General Moratín.
Zeno Cabral had for a long time had strong suspicions against these two men. His suspicions as to their loyalty had been several times aroused by the advances that Moratín had made towards himself, though they never dared to explain themselves clearly, for fear of disgracefully failing in presence of a man whose inflexible honour they were constrained to acknowledge.
From the evening before, the suspicions of the Montonero had suddenly changed into certainty. The last scout who had arrived at the camp had brought news of such grave importance that doubt was impossible in the presence of undeniable facts—facts the proof of which had been furnished in a decisive manner by the messenger.
General Moratín, thinking himself strong enough to proceed openly, thanks to the support that a hired majority in the congress had given him, had suddenly thrown off the mask, and aimed, not at the presidency, but at the dictatorship of the Buenos Airean provinces, relying on one hand on the majority of which we have spoken, and on the other on the military forces long previously prepared by his agents, who by recent events had been brought about him, and whose aid in a coup de main appeared to him certain.
Without loss of time the general had caused himself to be proclaimed dictator on the marshes of Cabildo, amidst the applause of the populace; then he had dissolved the congress, which would henceforth be useless; formed a ministry, of which M. Dubois had been named president; issued manifestoes in all the provinces of the republic; and, after having placed Tucumán in a state of siege, made his troops camp on all the squares of the town, and imprisoned suspicious citizens—that is to say, those of an opinion opposed to his own. He inaugurated his dictatorship by condemning to death, and executing, in twenty-four hours, six of the most influential and the most justly esteemed men of the province.
Terror reigned in Tucumán; a military regime, the abuse of power, the scorn of private rights, had in the name of liberty inaugurated an era of blood and tears.
On learning this sad news, a shudder of horror had run through the limbs of the Montonero; the whole night was passed by him in sleepless anxiety. He shuddered with shame and indignation on thinking of the abyss suddenly opened by the hideous ambition of this man without faith and without morality—an abyss in which was about to be engulfed for ever the independence of his country, and those privileges so dearly bought by ten years' obstinate struggle.
But Don Zeno Cabral was not only a good-hearted man, but one of those energetic natures, immovable in their convictions, who are rather excited than discouraged by obstacles, and who, rising with the danger, always find themselves on a level with the situation, whatever it may be, in which they are placed. At the break of day his resolution was taken—to save his country from the ruin with which it was threatened, whatever might be the consequences to himself. His plan carefully laid, he immediately proceeded to execute it. But as the Montonero was as prudent and wily as he was brave, notwithstanding the boundless confidence which he had in his companions, he allowed them to remain ignorant of the facts which had transpired in their absence. After having exacted from the scout that brought him the news a solemn promise to keep what he had learned a profound secret, he left his squadron, and boldly proceeded towards the low-lying ground, so as to obtain personally the information which was indispensable to him to put his projects into execution, maintaining some reserve, however, in case it might afterwards be necessary to fully acquaint his soldiers with all the facts, certain of the support that they would be sure to give him.
A journey through the Cordilleras was nothing for Zeno Cabral, whose whole life had been passed in the Pampas.
But it was only towards the evening of the third day after his departure from the camp that he at last reached the plains, at the moment when the sun sank behind the horizon, and darkness began to envelope the landscape.
Zeno Cabral, fatigued by a long march, immediately sought a favourable spot to establish his camp.
The search was not long. Before him, a rather broad river, with ripples like emeralds, wound its devious course. Like an experienced man who had long known the localities which he traversed, the Montonero proceeded towards some rather high ground which projected itself into the bed of the river, and the barren tops and sides of which offered a safe refuge against stragglers—men or beasts—who in these llanos (plains) are incessantly on the watch for travellers.
Although the Montonero had gained, thanks to the rapidity with which he travelled, the temperate climate of the Cordilleras, and already, felt, during the day, considerable heat, the nights were, nevertheless, cold and even frosty. The traveller was no further concerned about this fact, than to envelope himself carefully in his poncho, his blankets, and his pellones, before going to sleep. But, notwithstanding all these precautions, towards midnight the north wind became so sharp and the cold so piercing, that Don Zeno awoke, and after a desperate attempt to get to sleep again, was constrained to admit himself vanquished; he leaped up, half-frozen, from under his coverings, and proceeded to seat himself near the half-extinguished fire.
The night, illumined by the pale rays of the moon, was calm and beautiful; here and there the owlets flitted about, attracted by the hum of the horn beetles, on which they feed, and which fluttered round the fire; while the grey owls of the Pampa, gravely perched on the low branches of the trees, fixed, with a melancholy air, their round eyes on the encampment of the wanderer. In the distance, in the thickets, were heard the sad howlings of wolves, with which, at long intervals, was mingled a sonorous and piercing wail, immediately answered by another of the same kind in an opposite direction. When this sinister wail arose on the air, all the cries of the desert were immediately stilled, and a trembling agitated the thickets under the frightened steps of the escaping animals, for they recognised the formidable cry of the cougar. The tyrant of the Pampa was in quest of prey, and was hunting in company with his family.
Zeno Cabral was too familiar with the sounds of the desert, to trouble himself with the howlings of the wild beasts, even though they seemed rapidly to approach the spot that he had chosen for his night encampment. He contented himself by speaking to his horse, tied a few paces off, and to soothe the poor animal, whom the growling of the tigers made to tremble; and he then returned to seat himself near the fire, giving up the idea of sleep, making a cigarette, and looking carelessly around him, rather from listlessness than from fear.
We have said that the night was splendid; the sky appeared a dome of diamonds, and the superb regulation which marked the landscape here and there, looked like dark masses, the outlines of which were sweetly brought out by the moonlight. Innumerable glow worms scattered brilliant sparks among the branches, while millions of invisible insects hummed or buzzed among the shrubbery.
These natural beauties, joined to the measured sound of the waves of a large river, which, like a silver ribbon, made its capricious windings a little distance off, and to the calm majesty of the night, presented a spectacle which, by degrees, excited the impressionable mind of the bold Montonero, and plunged him into a melancholy reverie, in which all his faculties were soon so completely absorbed, that he not only lost the consciousness of the place in which he was, but of the disagreeable guests by which he was surrounded. In fact, he gave himself up to those mocking chimeras which sometimes visit the brain, and make us the sport of our own imaginations.
The Montonero had been for some time plunged in this reverie, when he felt himself struck by the same feeling of cold which, two hours before, had interrupted his sleep.
The young man raised his head, repressing a slight shiver, and wrapping himself in his poncho he looked around him.
Two men gravely crouched before the fire in front of him looked at him attentively, while they smoked their tobacco rolled in dry leaves. The two men were armed, their guns lying on their knees.
Notwithstanding the natural surprise that he manifested, on thus suddenly perceiving people whom he was far from expecting at that advanced hour of the night, and especially in the depths of the desert, the countenance of the Montonero remained impassive.
"Oh! Oh!" said he in Spanish, trying to distinguish through the curtain of flame that was between them, what sort of people they were with whom he had to do—whether they were friends or enemies—"You travel late, señores. No matter, you are welcome to my watch fire: if you are hungry or thirsty, speak—I have some provisions which I shall be happy to share with you."
"The palefaces have their ears stopped when their eyes are closed," answered one of the strangers; "it is easy to get at them."
"That is true," answered the young man, smiling, for at the first word he had recognised his interlocutor; "you are right, Cougar; we whites, however great may be our knowledge of the desert, never reach that degree of perfection that you possess, and we allow ourselves to be surprised; but this time, if I have been so, it is by friends whom I am happy to see, for I was looking for them, and am glad to see them."
"Then," said Gueyma, smiling, "you have no rancour against us in thus suddenly surprising you?"
"Far from it; besides, do you not know that, in all places, and at all hours, I shall be charmed to receive your visits? But now comes it that you find yourselves in these latitudes just at the same time as I?"
"Have you, then, forgotten the meeting that you arranged?" asked the Cougar.
"Certainly not; but, if my calculations are right, you should have been here a long time already."
"In fact," pursued Gueyma, "we are three hours behind time."
"It is no reproach, chief, which I address to you; on the contrary, as I believe you will have already observed, I have had the liveliest desire to see you," eagerly answered the Montonero. "I repeat that I have sought you."
"That is well, and the Cougar has been well inspired, when, on seeing the light of your fire, he induced me to come with him on the lookout."
"I acknowledge the prudence of the wisdom of the Cougar; thanks to him, we avoid a great loss of time for the realisation of our projects, the success of which, I with pleasure announce to you, is assured."
"Oh! Do you speak seriously, my brother?" cried Gueyma, with joy.
"You shall soon judge of that; but let us speak of preliminaries. You have been detained, you say?"
"Yes," answered the Cougar: "in the first place, we were joined by one of the principal chiefs of our tribe, who, at the head of a small detachment of warriors, crossed the desert to confirm us in the news that we had already received, as to the treason of the—"
"Ah?" cried Zeno Cabral. "And that chief was sent to you by—"
"By Tarou Niom himself," said the Cougar; "his name is Arnal," added he, darting a significant look at the Montonero.
"Arnal!" cried the latter, with a nervous start and a frown.
"My brother knows the chief, then?" asked Gueyma.
"I?" asked Zeno Cabral, with feigned indifference; "My brother is joking, no doubt; how should I know him?"
"Certainly, that is not to be expected, unless my brother has formerly traversed the hunting grounds of my tribe."
"I have never turned my horse's head in that direction. The chief has doubtless returned, then, after having accomplished his mission."
"No; he has remained with as," said the Cougar, "but our troop has since been increased."
"Other warriors have joined it?"
"No, they are travellers; whites."
"Whites?"
"Yes, six of them."
"Ah," cried the Montonero, with a strange expression, "white travellers in these parts, at this time of the year, is very singular; perhaps they are enemies, who have been surprised by you, as I myself have been."
"No, they are visitors; they have, of their own accord, presented themselves to us and claimed our aid."
"And?" said he, with ill-concealed anxiety.
"We have received them according to the laws of Indian hospitality; they are our brothers, and Arnal insisted that we should treat them as such."
"Confound it!" cried the Montonero, stamping with rage, as he rose.
"Is this news bad, then, for my brother?" asked Gueyma.
But Zeno Cabral had, by a violent effort, already regained self-possession.
"My brother is deceived," he answered, smiling. "This news does not concern me in any way. What are these men to me?"
"Two of them are women," slyly remarked the Cougar.
The Montonero feigned not to hear this observation. He turned away to hide the trouble that it caused him, and, leaning his head forward:
"Do you hear?" he said, making a sign for them to listen.
"We have heard that for some time," answered Gueyma.
"The wild beasts approach; they are roaming about. I do not know how it is, I feel a great desire to kill them," said the Montonero.
"A desire easy to satisfy," answered the old chief, "The lions will be here before ten minutes."
"Do you think so?"
"I am sure of it. Listen."
The three men had risen, and, with hands on their firearms, their bodies leaning forward, their eyes fixed on the thickets, and their ears on the watch, they remained stationary. No sound was heard but those undefined noises which are peculiar to the desert during the night.
Suddenly a trembling and a cracking of branches was heard in the woods which adjoined the camp. Then, in two or three minutes, the same trembling was repeated on the opposite side, on the sombre edge of the forest, and in the low branches of a tree, in the midst of a thicket of leaves, appeared, brilliant as two fire brands, the eyes of a wild beast.
The animal, after a moment of fear, advanced a little, throwing frightened looks to the right and the left. Then he commenced to creep gently along the branch on which he was placed, and soon all his body emerged from the shade, and stood out boldly in the light.
It was a cougar, or lion of America, of the most beautiful kind, and all the maturity of age, as was easy to see by its skin, which, instead of being of a woolly texture, crossed by little brown streaks, was of an agreeable and uniform tawny colour, without any admixture. Its ears, which were thrown back, were black, as well as the end of its tail. Its length was about seven feet.
It was lying, or rather crouching, on the branch. Its head was placed on its paws, which were stretched out. Its tail lashed its sides with force, and its eyes were directed with a strange gaze on the fire behind which the three men were hidden. After some minutes of this singular contemplation, the lion opened its mouth tremendously wide, and uttered a harsh growl. At the same instant a similar growl burst forth, but so startling and so near, that the three men started, and became alert in a moment.
At about twenty paces at the most from them, hidden in the same way in the low branches of a tree, a second cougar, just like the first, fixed on them his glaring eyes.
The situation became complicated.
"Well," said the Montonero, "we are more happy than we thought. Instead of one lion, we have two."
"Perhaps we shall have three," answered Gueyma.
"Abundance of good will not hurt us. But, however, that would astonish me."
"Listen," resumed the chief.
In fact a strong agitation, resembling that of a hasty march in the thicket, was heard.
"This is not the sound caused by a wild beast," murmured the old chief, shaking his head. "It is the step of a man."
"A man!" cried Gueyma and the Montonero; "It is impossible."
At the same moment the underwood was divided, and a man leaped into the midst of the camp.
It was no other than Emile Gagnepain.
His chest was heaving; notwithstanding the cold, his countenance, perspiring freely, bore witness to the violent exercise which he had undergone, and the rapid course which he had just made through the thickets, in the midst of which he had left his hat and even scraps of his clothes.
He held a double-barrelled gun in his hand. At first, blinded by the sudden transition from darkness to light, the young man could distinguish but imperfectly the persons to whom he had so abruptly introduced himself, but he soon distinguished the two Indians.
"Ah! Pardieu, gentlemen," cried he, getting his breath with difficulty; "I have been hunting this wild beast for the last three hours; I hope you will let me kill this magnificent animal."
"Be it so!" courteously answered the two Indians, putting the butt of their guns to the ground.
"But in case of danger, I shall be ready to come to your aid," said Zeno Cabral.
The painter turned quickly.
"Ah! It is you, Don Zeno!" said he, giving him his hand. "What a singular meeting!"
"Very singular!"
"Why does not the animal stir?"
"For a very simple reason—because he fears to do so."
"You think so?"
"Certainly, but be easy; he, or rather they, will soon take courage."
"What do you mean by they?"
"Why, look on this side; here is a second cougar, I think."
"Upon my word, that's true. How shall we kill both?"
"I will aid you."
"You are very good. I confess that I am already slightly embarrassed in regard to the first, without wishing to tackle the second."
"The second is a female."
"What a misfortune," said the painter laughingly, "to carry trouble into a household that appears so united! Eh, but," he added, "they are waking up, I think."
"Attention! They will not be long before they attack us."
The Indian chiefs had remarked with astonishment the recognition between the two men; but as the time was not propitious for an explanation, they were contented to exchange a significant look.
Meanwhile, although only ten minutes had passed since the sudden apparition of the cougars and the unforeseen arrival of the young Frenchman, the beasts remained passive on their respective branches. This fact, which may seem extraordinary, ought to be explained.
Although the cougar is the greatest and most powerful carnivorous animal of South America—committing enormous ravages among the flocks, and attacking generally all the animals that he meets—he flies away from man, for whom he has an instinctive horror. It is only when pushed to the last extremity, and literally to save his own life, that he at last resolves to face his assailant; but then he becomes terrible, defends himself with unparalleled desperation, will not retreat an inch, and only falls when dead.
The two lions, male and female, had at sunset left their den to go in pursuit of prey. After having traversed the desert in all directions, they saw the fire or the Montonero's encampment, and, attracted by the light, they gradually approached it, creeping along with that light and elegant suppleness which characterises the feline race, bounding from tree to tree, gliding along the branches. But on seeing the men motionless and firm before them, they had immediately stopped, doubtless hoping that they would not be discovered by their implacable enemy, and apparently contemplating seeking their safety in immediate flight. But when the hunters had risen and had seized their arms, the cougars had perceived that all chance of safety had gone, and they prepared to fight; then, having uttered a roar to give a mutual warning, they seemed to think it a favourable moment to spring upon the hunters.
At the cry of warning by the Montonero, Emile had suddenly darted backward and shouldered his gun.
Almost immediately the two wild animals, as if by mutual agreement, uttered a roar of anger, and darting at once with a terrible bound, they threw themselves upon the hunters.
But the latter were on their guard; without retreating a step, they attacked the animals as they leaped, and seizing their guns by the barrel, they fought body to body with the animals. It was a terrible and desperate combat.
Emile, although it was the first time he had found himself an actor in so dangerous a hunt, and the first time he had seen such awkward game, exhibited remarkable coolness, not slipping the trigger of his gun till he had taken very careful aim of his adversary, and then, when his piece was discharged, he abandoned it to take two pistols from his girdle.
The two Indians had succeeded in easily overcoming the lioness, which Gueyma had seriously wounded in the right shoulder, whilst the ball of the old chief had broken its loins. The animal had fallen nearly dead, and the last convulsions of its agony were all they had to fear; the struggle in this direction had not been long.
But as to the lion, it was a very different affair. Although the two balls of the hunters had pierced his body, his leap had nevertheless been so well calculated, that he had actually sprung on the Montonero. The latter, overturned by the shock, had rolled a few paces, horribly torn, bruised, and half fainting, and consequently not in a position to defend himself.