"Thank you," Doña Rosario murmured, restoring the gourd almost empty. But ere long her eyes gradually grew heavy, and she sank back, murmuring in a faint voice—
"Good Heaven! what can be the matter with me? I am dying."
One of the mosotones caught her in his arms, and placed her before him on his saddle. All at once she for a moment recovered herself as if by an electric shock, opened her eyes, and cried with a piercing voice, "Help, help!" and relapsed into insensibility.
On hearing this agonised cry, the Linda, in spite of herself, felt her heart fail her, but quickly recovering, she said, with a bitter smile—
"Am I growing foolish?"
She made a sign to the mosotone who carried Doña Rosario to draw nearer, and examined her attentively.
"She is asleep," she muttered, with an expression of satisfied hatred; "when she awakes I shall be avenged."
At this moment Antinahuels position was very critical. Too weak to attempt anything serious against the Chilians, whom he wished to induce to make a peace advantageous for his country, he endeavoured to gain time by moving about on the frontier, so that his enemies, not knowing where to find him, could not force conditions upon him which he ought not to accept. Although the Aucas responded to the appeal of his emissaries, and rose eagerly to come and join his ranks, it was necessary to give the tribes, most of them remote, time to concentrate upon the point he had named.
On their side the Spaniards, whose internal tranquillity was for the future secured by the death of General Bustamente, had very little desire to carry on a war which had no longer any interest for them. They stood in need of peace to repair the evils created by the civil war, they therefore confined themselves to arming their frontiers, and endeavoured by every means to bring about serious conferences with the principal Araucan chiefs. Don Gregorio Peralta had been blamed for the threat he had so hastily made to Antinahuel, and he himself acknowledged the folly of his conduct when he heard of the Toquis departure with his prisoner. Another system had in consequence been adopted. Only ten of the principal chiefs were detained as hostages. The others, well instructed and loaded with presents, were set at liberty. Everything rendered it probable that these chiefs on their return to their respective tribes would employ their influence to conclude a peace, and unmask before the council the proceedings of Antinahuel, proceedings which had brought the nation to the verge of ruin.
The Araucanos are passionate in their love of liberty; for them every consideration gives way to that of being free. Hence it was easy to foresee that the Aucas, in spite of their veneration for their Toqui, would not hesitate to depose him when their chiefs on the one part and the friendly captains on the other, made it clear to them that that liberty was compromised, and that they exposed themselves to being deprived of it forever, and falling under the Spanish yoke if they continued their aggressive policy.
A FURY.
After a march of five or six leagues at most, Antinahuel ordered his troop to bivouac. The warriors who accompanied him were almost all of his own tribe. As soon as the fires were lighted the Linda approached him.
"I have kept my promise," she said.
"Then, the young girl——?" he asked.
"Is asleep!" she replied, with a hideous smile.
"Good," he murmured, joyfully, and bent his steps towards the toldo, erected in haste, beneath which his victim had been transported. "No," he said, "presently!" and then turning to his accomplice added, "For how long a time has my sister sent the young girl to sleep?"
"She will not awake before daybreak."
A smile of satisfaction lit up the chief's features.
"That is well—my sister is skilful, and I should like to show my sister," he continued, "that I am not ungrateful, and that I also keep my word faithfully."
The Linda fixed a searching look upon him.
"Of what word is my brother speaking?"
"My sister has an enemy whom she has pursued for a long time, without being able to destroy him," Antinahuel said, with a smile.
"Don Tadeo?"
"Yes, and that enemy is also mine."
"Well?"
"He is in my power."
"Don Tadeo is my brother's prisoner?"
"He is here."
"At last," she cried, triumphantly. "Then I will repay him all the tortures he has inflicted upon me."
"Yes; she is at liberty to make him undergo all the insults her inventive spirit can furnish her with."
"Oh!" she cried, in a voice that almost made the hardened chief shudder, "I will only inflict one punishment upon him, but it shall be terrible."
"But be careful, woman." Antinahuel replied; "be careful not to let your hatred carry you too far; this man's life is mine, and I will deprive him of it with my own hands."
"Oh!" she said, with a hideous, mocking laugh, "do not be afraid; I will return your victim to you safe and sound. I am not a man—my weapon is my tongue."
"Yes; but that weapon is double-edged,"
"I will restore him to you, I tell you."
"There," the chief replied, pointing to a hut made of branches; "but beware forget not what I said."
"I will not forget," she retorted, with a savage leer.
And she sprang towards the hut.
"It is only women that know how to hate," Antinahuel murmured, looking after her.
A score of warriors waited for their chief at the entrance of the camp. He sprang into his saddle and departed with them.
Although through pride he had allowed nothing to appear, the threats of Don Gregorio had produced a strong impression upon Antinahuel. He had reason to fear that the Chilian officer would massacre his prisoners and hostages. The consequences of this action would be terrible to him, and would make him lose beyond recovery the prestige he still enjoyed among his compatriots; therefore, forced for the first time in his life to bend, he had resolved to retrace his steps, and confer with this man.
Endowed with great finesse, Antinahuel flattered himself he could obtain from Don Gregorio a delay which would enable him to sacrifice his prisoner without being called to an account for it. But time pressed.
It was scarcely eight o'clock in the evening, and Antinahuel had but six leagues to ride; he flattered himself, therefore, that if nothing thwarted his plans, he should arrive long before the time, and even return to his camp ere sunrise.
We have said that the Linda entered the hut which sheltered Don Tadeo. She found him seated upon a heap of dry leaves in a corner of the hut, his back leaning against a tree, his arms crossed upon his breast, and his head drooping on his chest. Absorbed by the bitter thoughts which weighed upon his heart, he did not perceive the entrance of the Linda, who, standing motionless within two paces of him, contemplated him with an expression of rage and satisfied hatred.
"Well?" said a shrill, incisive voice, "What are you thinking of, Don Tadeo?"
He started at the too well-known sound, and raised his head.
"Ah!" he replied, bitterly, "is that you? I wondered I had not seen you before."
"It is strange, is it not?" she replied. "Well, we are once more face to face."
"Like a hyena, the odour of blood attracts you."
"Who—I, Don Tadeo? You mistake my character strangely. No, no; am I not your wife—the woman whom you loved so much?"
Don Tadeo shrugged his shoulders with an expression of disgust.
"You ought to be grateful for what I do," she replied.
"Listen to me," said Don Tadeo, "your insults can never rise to the height of my contempt. Do, act, speak, insult me, invent the most atrocious calumnies your infernal genius can inspire, I will not answer you! Concentrated in myself, your insults, like a vain sound, will strike my ear without my mind making the least effort to understand them."
"Oh!" she cried, "I know well how to compel you to listen to me, my beloved husband. You men are all alike! You arrogate to yourselves all the rights, as you have done all the virtues! We are contemptible beings, creatures without heart; condemned to be your very humble servants, and to endure, with a smile upon our lips, all the insults you please to heap upon us! It was I who was always wrong; you are right; it was I who stole your child from you, was it not?"
At the end of a minute she resumed—
"Come, let there be no feigning between us; let us speak for the last time openly. You are the prisoner of your most implacable enemy; the most frightful tortures await you. In a few instants, perhaps, the punishment which threatens you will fall like a thunderbolt upon your proud head. Well, I can enable you to escape this punishment; that life, which you now reckon only by seconds, I can restore to you, happy, long, and glorious! In a word, I can with one sentence, one gesture, one sign, restore you to liberty immediately! I only ask one thing of you—I mistake, not a thing, a word—utter that word, Don Tadeo, where is my daughter?"
Don Tadeo shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, with a gesture of fury, "this man is a bar of iron; nothing can touch him—no words are sufficiently strong to move him! Demon! demon! oh, with what joy I could tear you to pieces! But no," she added, after a moment's pause, "I am wrong, Don Tadeo; pardon me, I know not what I say; grief makes me mad! Have pity on me! I am a woman—I am a mother. I adore my child, my poor little girl whom I have not seen so long, who has lived deprived of my kisses and my love! Restore her to me, Don Tadeo. See, I am on my knees at your feet! I supplicate you, I weep! Don Tadeo, restore me my child!"
She cast herself at the feet of Don Tadeo, and seized his poncho.
"Begone, señora, begone!"
"And is that all?" she cried, in a choked, husky voice; "Is that all? I implore you, I drag myself panting with grief through the dust at your feet, and you laugh at me. Prayers and threats are equally powerless with you. Beware, Don Tadeo, beware!"
Don Tadeo smiled disdainfully.
"What punishment can you impose upon me more terrible than your presence?" he said.
"Senseless man!" she resumed; "Fool! Do you imagine, then, that you alone are in my power?"
"What do you mean by that?" Don Tadeo cried, starting up.
"Ah, ah!" she exclaimed, with an expression of ferocious joy, "I have hit the mark this time, have I?"
"Speak, speak!" he exclaimed, in great agitation.
"And suppose I should not please to do so?" she replied ironically. And she laughed like a demon.
"But no," she continued, in a bitterly sarcastic tone, "I cannot bear malice: come along with me, Don Tadeo; I will lead you to her whom you have so long sought for in vain, and whom but for me you would never see again. And see how generous I am," she added, jeeringly. "Come along with me, Don Tadeo."
She hastily left the hut, and Don Tadeo followed her, struck by a horrible presentiment.
A THUNDERCLAP.
The Araucanos, spread about the camp, saw with surprise these two persons, both in apparent agitation, pass them. Doña Maria rushed into the toldo, followed by Don Tadeo. Doña Rosario was fast asleep upon a bed of dry leaves, covered with sheepskins. She had the appearance of a dead person. Don Tadeo, deceived by this, sprang towards her, exclaiming in a tone of despair—
"She is dead! oh, heavens, she is dead!"
"No, no," said the Linda, "she is asleep."
"Still," he exclaimed, "this sleep cannot be natural, for our coming in should have awakened her."
"Well! perhaps it is not natural."
Don Tadeo cast an inquiring glance at her.
"Oh," she said, ironically, "she is alive; only it was necessary to send her to sleep for awhile."
Don Tadeo was mute with confused astonishment.
"You do not understand me," she resumed. "Well, I will explain; this girl whom you love so much—"
"Oh, yes, I love her!" he interrupted.
"It was I who took her from you," said the Linda, with a bitter smile.
"Wretch, miserable wretch!"
"Why, I hated you, and I avenged myself; I knew the deep love you bear this creature. To take her from you was aiming a blow at your heart."
"Miserable!" Don Tadeo cried.
"Ah, yes," the Linda replied, smiling, "that revenge was miserable; it did not at all amount to what I intended; but chance offered me what could alone satisfy me, by breaking your very heart."
"What frightful infamy can this monster have imagined?" Don Tadeo murmured.
"Antinahuel, the enemy of your race, your enemy, became enamoured of this woman."
"What!" he exclaimed, in a tone of horror.
"Yes, after his fashion, he loved her," she continued, coolly; "so I resolved to sell her to him, and I did so; but when the chief wished to avail himself of the rights I had given him, she resisted, and arming herself suddenly with a dagger, threatened to plunge it into her own heart."
"Noble girl!" he exclaimed, deeply affected.
"Is she not?" said the Linda, with her malign vacant smile; "so I took pity on her, and as I had no particular wish for her death, but a very anxious one for her dishonour, I this evening gave her some opium, which will place her, without means of defence, in the power of Antinahuel. Have I attained my object this time?"
Don Tadeo made no reply, this utter depravity in a woman absolutely terrified him.
"Well," she continued, in a mocking tone, "have you nothing to say?"
"Mad woman, mad woman!" he cried, in a loud voice, "you have avenged yourself, you say? Mad woman! Could you a mother, pretending to adore your daughter, coolly, unhesitatingly, conceive such crimes? I say, do you know what you have done?"
"My daughter, you named my daughter! Restore her to me! Tell me where she is, and I will save this woman. Oh! if I could but see her!"
"Your daughter, wretch? You serpent bursting with venom! Is it possible you think of her?"
"Oh, if I found her again, I would love her so."
"Do you fancy that possible?" said Don Tadeo.
"Oh, yes, a daughter cannot hate her mother."
"Ask herself, then!" he cried, in a voice of thunder.
"What! what! what!" she shrieked. In a tone of thrilling agony, and springing up as if electrified; "What did you say? What did you say, Don Tadeo?"
"I say, miserable wretch! that the innocent creature whom you have pursued with the inveteracy of a hungry hyena, is your daughter!—do you hear me? your daughter! She whom you pretend to love so dearly, and whom, a few minutes ago, you demanded of me so earnestly."
The Linda remained for an instant motionless, as if thunderstruck; and then exclaimed, with a loud, demoniac laugh—
"Well played, Don Tadeo! well played, by Heaven! For a moment I believed you were telling the truth."
"Oh!" Don Tadeo murmured, "this wretched being cannot recognise her own child."
"No, I do not believe it! It is not possible! Nature would have warned me that it was my child!"
"God renders those blind whom He would destroy, miserable woman! An exemplary punishment was due to His insulted justice!"
The Linda turned about in the toldo like a wild beast in a cage, uttering inarticulate cries, incessantly repeating in a broken voice—
"No, no! she cannot be my daughter!"
Don Tadeo experienced a feeling of deadly hatred, in spite of his better nature, at beholding this profound grief; he also wished to avenge himself.
"Senseless woman," he said, "had the child I stole from you no sign, no mark whatever, by which it would be possible for you to recognise her?"
"Yes, yes," she cried, roused from her stupor; "wait! wait!"
And she threw herself down upon her knees, leant over the sleeping Rosario, and tore the covering from her neck and shoulder.
"My child!" she exclaimed; "it is she! it is my child!"
She had perceived three small moles upon the young girl's right shoulder. Suddenly her body became agitated by convulsive movements, her face was horribly distorted, her glaring eyes seemed staring from their sockets; she, clasped her hands tightly to her breast, uttered a deep rattle, more like a roar than a sound from a human mouth, and rolled upon the ground, crying with an accent impossible to describe—
"My daughter! my daughter! Oh, I will save her!"
She crawled, with the action of a wild beast, to the feet of the poor girl.
"Rosario, my daughter!" she cried, in a voice broken by sobs; "it is I, it is your mother! Know me, dear!"
"It is you who have killed her," Don Tadeo said, implacably; "unnatural mother, who coolly planned the dishonour of your own child."
"Oh, do not speak so!" she cried, clasping her hands; "She shall not die! I will not let her die! She must live! I will save her, I tell you!"
"It is too late."
"I tell you I will save her," she repeated, in a deep tone.
At this moment the steps of horses resounded.
"Here is Antinahuel!" said Don Tadeo.
"Yes," she replied, with a short, determined accent, "of what consequence is his arrival? Woe be to him if he touch my child!"
The curtain of the toldo was lifted by a firm hand, and an Indian appeared: it was Antinahuel. A warrior followed with a torch.
"Eh, eh!" said the chief, with an ironical smile.
"Yes," Linda replied smiling; "my brother arrives opportunely."
"Has my sister had a satisfactory conversation with her husband?"
"Yes," she replied.
"Good! the Great Eagle of the Whites is an intrepid warrior; the Aucas warriors will soon put his courage to the test."
This brutal allusion to the fate that was reserved for him was perfectly understood by Don Tadeo.
"Men of my temperament do not allow themselves to be frightened by vain threats," he retorted.
The Linda drew the chief aside.
"Antinahuel is my brother," she said, in a low voice; "we were brought up together."
"Has my sister anything to ask for?"
"Yes, and for his own sake my brother would do well to grant it me."
Antinahuel looked at her earnestly.
"Speak," he said, coolly.
"Everything my brother has desired I have done."
The chief bowed his head affirmatively.
"This woman, who resisted him," she continued, "I have given up to him without defence."
"Good!"
"My brother knows that the palefaces have secrets which they alone possess?"
"I know they have."
"If my brother pleases it shall not be a woman cold, motionless, and buried in sleep, that I surrender to him."
The eye of the Indian kindled with a strange light.
"I do not understand my sister," he said.
"I am able," the Linda replied, earnestly, "in three days so completely to change this woman's feelings for my brother, that she will be towards him loving and devoted."
"Can my sister do that?" he asked, doubtingly.
"I can do it," she replied, resolutely.
Antinahuel reflected for a few minutes.
"Why did my sister wait so long to do this?"
"Because I did not think it would be necessary."
"Ooch!" said the Indian, thoughtfully.
"Besides," she added, carelessly, "if I say anything about it now, it is only from friendship for my brother."
Whilst pronouncing these words, an internal shudder agitated her whole frame.
"And will it require three days to effect this change?"
"Three days."
"Antinahuel is a wise chief—he will wait."
The Linda experienced great inward joy; if the chief had refused, her resolution was formed—she would have stabbed him to the heart.
"Good!" she said; "my brother may depend upon my promise."
"Yes," the Toqui replied; "the girl is sick; it would be better she should be cured."
The Linda smiled with an undefinable expression.
"The Eagle will follow me," said Antinahuel; "unless he prefers giving me his word."
"No!" Don Tadeo answered.
The two men left the toldo together. Antinahuel commanded his warriors to guard the prisoner strictly.
At sunrise the camp was struck, and the Aucas marched during the whole day into the mountains without any determinate object.
"Has my sister commenced?" asked the chief of Linda.
"I have commenced," she replied.
The truth was she had passed the whole day in vainly endeavouring to induce the maiden to speak to her; the latter had constantly refused, but the Linda was not a woman to be easily repulsed. As soon as the chief had left her, she went to Doña Rosario, and stooping to her ear, said in a low, melancholy voice—
"Pardon me all the ill I have done you—I did not know who you were; in the name of Heaven, have pity on me—I am your mother!"
At this avowal, the young girl staggered as if she were thunderstruck. The Linda sprang towards her, but Doña Rosario repulsed her with a cry of horror, and fled into her toldo.
"Oh!" the Linda cried, with tears in her eyes, "I will love her so that she must pardon me."
It was the evening of the eighth day, after twenty leagues from Arauca. In a virgin forest of myrtles, cypresses, and espinos, which cover with their green shade the lower parts of the Cordilleras—four men were seated round a fire. Of these four men, two wore the Indian costume, and were no other than Trangoil-Lanec and Curumilla; the others were the count and Valentine.
The spot on which our travellers had halted was one of those glades so common in American forests. It was a vast space covered with the trunks of trees that have died from age, or been struck by lightning, deeply inclosed between two hills.
The Indians were too experienced to commit the fault of stopping of their own accord in this place; and it was only from the impossibility of going further that they had consented to pass the night there.
The day had been a rough one, but the night promised to be mild and tranquil. The travellers attacked their supper bravely, in order to be the sooner able to enjoy the repose they stood so much in need of. They did not exchange a word during the repast; the last morsel swallowed, the Indians threw upon the fire a few armfuls of dry wood, of which they had an ample provision at hand, then folded themselves in their ponchos, and fell asleep. Valentine and Cæsar alone were left to keep guard.
It was almost an hour since he had taken Valentine's place, when Cæsar, who had till that time lain carelessly stretched before the fire, sharply raised his head, sniffed the air in all directions, and gave a surly growl.
"Well, Cæsar," said the young man whilst patting the animal, "what's the matter, my good dog?"
The Newfoundland fixed his large intelligent eyes upon the count, wagged his tail, and uttered a growl much stronger than the first.
"Very well," said Louis; "we will go on the lookout. Come along, Cæsar."
The count examined his rifle and his pistols, and made a sign to the dog, who watched all his motions.
"Now, Cesar," he said, "look out, my fine fellow!"
The animal, as if he had only waited for this order, sprang forward, followed step by step by his master, who examined the bushes, and stopped at intervals to cast an inquiring glance around him.
At length, after numberless windings, the dog crouched, turned its head towards the young man, and uttered one of those plaintive howls, so like a human complaint, which are peculiar to the race. The count started; putting the bushes and leaves apart with precaution, he looked, and with difficulty repressed a cry of painful astonishment at the strange spectacle which presented itself to his eyes. Within twenty paces from him, in the centre of a vast glade, fifty Indians were lying round a fire, buried in the sleep of intoxication, as could be divined from the leather bottles scattered without order upon the sand, some full of aguardiente, others empty.
But what attracted the particular attention of the young man was the sigh of two persons, a man and a woman, firmly bound to two trees. The head of the man reclined upon his breast, his large eyes were flooded with tears; deep sighs seemed to rise from his very heart, as he looked towards a young girl standing bound before him.
"Oh!" the count murmured, "Don Tadeo de León! My God! Grant that that woman be not his daughter!"
Alas! it was she. At their feet lay the Linda, bound to an enormous post.
The young man felt the blood flow back to his heart; forgetful of his own preservation, he seized a pistol in each hand, and was about to spring forward, when a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a voice whispered in his ear—
"Prudence!"
"Prudence!" the young man repeated, in a tone of painful reproach; "look there!"
"I have seen," replied Trangoil-Lanec, "but my brother will look in his turn," he added.
And he pointed to a dozen Indians, who, awakened by the cold of the night, or perhaps by the involuntary noise made by the two men, in spite of their precaution, rose and looked suspiciously around.
"That is true!" Louis murmured, quite overcome. "Oh, my God! Will you not come to our aid?"
The chief took advantage of the momentary prostration into which his friend had fallen, to lead him back a little, so as to avoid increasing the aroused suspicions of the Indians.
"Still," the young man exclaimed, "we shall save them, shall we not, chief?"
The Araucano shook his head.
"At this moment it is impossible," he replied.
"Brother, now that we have recovered their track, which we had lost, they must be saved."
A smile passed over the lips of the Indian warrior.
"We will try," he said.
"Thanks! thanks, chief," the young man cried.
"Let us return to the camp," said Trangoil-Lanec. "Patience, my brother," the Indian added in a solemn voice; "nothing is urgent—in an hour we shall be on their track again."
"That is true," the young man said, hanging down his head with forced resignation.
The two men regained their encampment, where they found Curumilla and Valentine still asleep.
In the course of the past few days certain events had taken place in Araucania which we must explain. The policy adopted by General Fuentes had produced the best results. The chiefs restored to liberty had returned to their tribes, where they had warmly persuaded their mosotones to conclude a definite peace. These persuasions had been eagerly listened to.
The Huiliches, who asked no better than to resume the course of their peaceful labours in safety, warmly gave their adhesion to the conditions their Ulmens submitted to them.
A grand council was solemnly convoked on the banks of the Carampangne, at the closing of which six deputies, chosen from among the wisest and most respected chiefs, having at their head an Apo-Ulmen named the Lynx, and followed by a thousand well-armed horsemen, were sent to Antinahuel, in order to communicate to him the resolutions of the council, and demand his assent.
When he perceived at a distance this numerous troop advancing amidst clouds of dust, Antinahuel breathed a sigh of satisfaction, thinking what a noble reinforcement was coming: for the malocca which he was so anxious to attempt upon the Chilian frontier.
The troop which Antinahuel had perceived continued to approach, and soon came within speaking distance. The Toqui then observed with secret dissatisfaction that it was commanded by the Lynx, who had always been tacitly opposed to him. When the horsemen had arrived within ten paces of the camp the Lynx made a sign, and the troop halted; a herald stopped in front of the chiefs, and saluted them respectfully.
"Toqui of the four Uthal-mapus," he said, in a loud voice, "and you Ulmens who hear me—the Lynx, the venerated Apo-Ulmen of Arauca, followed by six Ulmens no less celebrated than himself, is sent to you to enjoin obedience to the orders emanating from the supreme Auca-coyog."
After speaking thus the herald bowed respectfully and retired. Antinahuel and his Ulmens looked at each other in astonishment, for they could not comprehend what it all meant. The Toqui alone suspected some treachery planned against himself; but his countenance remained impassive, and he asked his Ulmens to accompany him to the council fire. At the expiration of a minute the Lynx arose, made two steps forward, and spoke as follows:—
"The grand Auca-coyog of Arauca, in the name of the people, to all persons who are at the head of warriors, salutation! Certain that all our compatriots keep their faith, we wish them peace in that genius of goodness, in which alone reside true health and holy obedience. This is what we have resolved: war has fallen unexpectedly upon our rich plains, and has changed them into deserts; our harvests have been trampled under the feet of horses, our cattle have been killed or driven away by the enemy, our crops are lost, our toldos are burnt, our wives and children have disappeared in the tempest. We will have no more war, and peace must be immediately concluded with the palefaces. I have spoken."
A profound silence followed this speech. Antinahuel's Ulmens were struck with stupor, and looked towards their chief with great anxiety.
"And upon what conditions has this peace been concluded?" asked the Toqui.
"The conditions are these," the Lynx replied; "Antinahuel will immediately release the white prisoners; he will dismiss the army; the Araucanos will pay the palefaces two thousand sheep, five hundred vicunas, and eight hundred head of cattle; and the war hatchet is to be buried."
"Hum!" said the Toqui with a bitter smile; "these are hard conditions. If I should on my part refuse to ratify this shameful peace?"
"But my father will not refuse," the Lynx suggested.
"But I do refuse!" he replied, loudly.
"Good! my father will reflect; it is impossible that can be his last word."
Antinahuel, cunning as he was, had no suspicion of the snare that was laid for him.
"I repeat to you. Lynx," he said, in a loud voice, "and to all the chiefs who surround me, that I refuse to ratify these dishonourable conditions. So, now you can return whence you came."
"Not yet!" said the Lynx, in his turn, as sharply as the Toqui. "I have not finished yet!"
"What else have you to tell me?"
"The council, which is composed of the wise men of all the tribes, has foreseen the refusal of my father."
"Ah!" Antinahuel cried. "What have they decreed in consequence?"
"This: the hatchet of Toqui is withdrawn from my father; all the Araucanian warriors are released from their oath of fidelity to him; fire and water are refused to my father; he is declared a traitor to his country, as are all those who do not obey, and remain with him. The Araucanian nation will no longer serve as a plaything, and be the victim of the wild ambition of a man unworthy of commanding it."
During this terrific peroration Antinahuel had remained motionless, his arms crossed upon his breast.
"Have you finished?" he asked.
"I have finished," the Lynx replied; "now the herald will go and proclaim in your camp what I have told you at the council fire."
"Well, let him go!" Antinahuel replied. "You are welcome to withdraw from me the hatchet of Toqui. Of what importance is that vain dignity to me? You may declare me a traitor to my country; I have on my side my own conscience, which absolves me; but what you wish above all else to have you shall not have and that is my prisoners. Farewell!"
And with a step as firm as if nothing had happened to him, he returned to his camp. But there a great mortification awaited him. At the summons of the herald all his warriors abandoned him. One after the other, some with joy, others with sorrow. He who five minutes before counted more than eight hundred warriors under his orders, saw their numbers diminish so rapidly that soon only thirty-eight were left.
The Lynx called out an ironical farewell to him from a distance, and departed at a gallop with all his troop. When Antinahuel counted the small number of friends left to him, an immense grief weighed upon his heart; he sank down at the foot of a tree, covered his face with his poncho, and wept.
In the meantime, thanks to the facilities which the Linda had procured Don Tadeo, the latter had been able for some days past to approach Rosario. The presence of the man who had brought her up was a great consolation to the young lady; but when Don Tadeo, who had thenceforward no reasons for secrecy, confessed to her that he was her father, an inexpressible joy took possession of the poor child. It appeared to her that she now had no longer anything to dread, and that since her father was with her she should easily escape the horrible love of Antinahuel. The Linda, whom Don Tadeo allowed from pity to be near her, beheld with childish joy the father and daughter talking together.
This woman was really a mother, with all the devotedness and all the abnegation which the title implies. She no longer lived for anything but her daughter.
Whilst the events we have described were taking place, the three Chilians, crouched in a corner of the camp, absorbed by their own feelings, had attended to nothing—seen or heard nothing. Don Tadeo and Rosario were seated at the foot of a tree, and at some distance the Linda, without daring to mingle in their conversation, contemplated them with delight. His first grief calmed, Antinahuel recovered himself, and was as haughty and as implacable as ever. On raising his eyes his looks fell mechanically upon his prisoners.
Antinahuel, whose attention was roused, had watched Maria carefully, and was not long in acquiring the moral proof of a plot being laid against him by his ancient accomplice. The Indian was too cunning to let them be aware of his suspicions; still he held himself on his guard, waiting for the first opportunity to change them into certainty. He ordered his mosotones to tie each of his prisoners to a tree, which order was immediately executed.
At sight of this, the Linda forgot her prudence; she rushed, dagger in hand, towards the chief, and reproached him with his baseness. Antinahuel disdained to reply to her reproaches; he merely snatched the dagger from her hand, threw her down upon the ground, and ordered her to be tied to a large post with her face turned towards the ground.
"Since my sister is so fond of the prisoners," he said "it is but just that she should share their fate."
"Cowardly wretch!" she replied, vainly endeavouring to release herself. The chief turned from her in apparent contempt; then, as he fancied that he must reward the fidelity of the warriors who followed his fortunes, he gave them several bottles of aguardiente. It was at the end of these orgies that they were discovered by the count, thanks to the sagacity of the Newfoundland dog.
As soon as Curumilla and Valentine had been awakened, they saddled the horses, then the Indians sat down by the fire, making a sign to the Frenchmen to imitate them. The count was driven to despair by the slowness of his friends; if he had only listened to his own feelings, he would have instantly set out in pursuit of the ravishers; but he could not help seeing how necessary the support of the Ulmens must be to him in the decisive struggle he was about to undertake, whether for attack, defence, or following the track of the Aucas.
After a tolerably long interval, employed by our four personages in conscientiously burning their tobacco leaf, the last, Trangoil-Lanec spoke—
"The warriors are numerous," he said, "therefore we cannot hope to conquer by force. Since we have been upon their track many events must have occurred; we ought to ascertain what Antinahuel means to do with his prisoners, and whether they are really in danger. Antinahuel is ignorant of the ties which connect me with those who are in his power, he will not suspect me."
"Very well!" said Curumilla, "my brother is prudent, he will succeed. But let him carefully calculate his actions and his words whilst he is amongst them."
Valentine looked at his foster brother with astonishment.
"What does all this mean?" he asked. "Is Antinahuels track found again?"
"Yes, brother," Louis replied, in a melancholy tone, "Doña Rosario and her father are within half a league of us, and in danger of death!"
"Vive Dieu!" the young man cried, "and we are here prating."
"Alas!" Louis murmured, "what can four men do against fifty?"
"That is too true," he replied, returning dejectedly to his place. "As Trangoil-Lanec says, fighting will not avail us, we must manoeuvre."
"Chief," Louis observed, "your plan is good, but I think of two material ameliorations."
"My brother can speak, he is wise," Trangoil-Lanec replied, bowing courteously.
"We must provide against all that may happen. Go to the camp, we will follow your steps; but if you cannot rejoin us as quickly as we may wish, agree upon a signal which may inform us why, and agree also upon another signal in case your life may be in danger."
"Very well," said Curumilla; "if the chief requires our presence, he will imitate the cry of the water-hawk; if he is obliged to remain with the Aucas the song of the goldfinch will warn us of it."
"That is settled," Trangoil-Lanec answered; "but what is my brother's second observation?"
The count rummaged in his haversack, took out some paper, wrote a few words upon a sheet, which he folded and handed to the chief, saying—
"It is particularly important that those whom we wish to deliver should not thwart our plans; perhaps Don Tadeo may not recognise my brother. The chief will slip this necklace into the hands of the young pale woman."
"That shall be done; the young blue-eyed maiden shall have the necklace, the chief replied with a smile.
"Well, now," said Curumilla, "let us take the track."
"Yes, time presses," said Valentine.
Towards the evening of the second day, Trangoil-Lanec, leaving his companions to establish their encampment upon the declivity of a little hill, at the entrance of a natural grotto, clapped spurs to his horse, and was soon out of sight. He directed his course towards the spot where the Black Serpents had stopped for the night—a spot announced to the clear-sighted Indian by a thin thread of white smoke. When he arrived at a certain distance from the camp, the chief saw two Indian Black Serpents suddenly spring up before him, clothed in their war costume.
"Where is my brother going?" one of the Black Serpents asked, advancing towards him.
"Good!" the chief replied, throwing his gun, which he held in his left hand, on his shoulder. "Trangoil-Lanec has recognised the trail of his brothers the Black Serpents, and he wishes to smoke at their fire."
"My brother will follow me," the Indian remarked.
He made an imperceptible sign to his companion, who quitted his hiding place. Trangoil-Lanec followed them, casting around an apparently careless glance. In a few minutes they reached the camp, whose situation was admirably chosen.
The arrival of the warrior created a stir in the camp, which was, however, quickly repressed. Trangoil-Lanec was conducted into the presence of the chief, and as his reputation was high among his compatriots, Antinahuel, to do him honour, received him in the most elevated part or the camp. The two chiefs saluted each other.
"Is my brother Antinahuel hunting with his young men?" asked Trangoil-Lanec.
"Yes," the Toqui replied, laconically.
"Has my brother been fortunate in his hunting?"
"Very fortunate," said Antinahuel, with a sinister smile; "let my brother open his eyes."
"Wah!" said Trangoil-Lanec, "palefaces! My brother has had good sport indeed; he will get a heavy ransom for his prisoners."
"The toldo of Antinahuel is solitary—he wants a squaw to inhabit it."
"Good! I understand; my brother will take one of the pale women."
"The blue-eyed maiden will be the wife of a chief."
"Wah! but why does my brother detain the Great Eagle?"
Antinahuel only replied by a smile, the expression of which the chief could not mistake.
"Oh, good!" he rejoined; "my brother is a great chief—who is able to fathom his thoughts?"
The Araucano warrior rose, quitted Antinahuel, and walked about the camp, the order and position of which he feigned to admire, but in reality he drew nearer and nearer, in an almost imperceptible manner, to that part at which the prisoners were seated.
"Let my brother look," Antinahuel said, pointing to Doña Rosario; "does not that woman deserve to espouse a chief?"
"She is pretty!" Trangoil-Lanec replied, coldly; "But I would give all the palefaces in the world for one bottle of such firewater as I have here."
"Has my brother some firewater?" Antinahuel asked, whose eyes sparkled at the thought.
"Yes," the chief replied; "look!"
The Toqui turned round, and the Aucas profited by the movement to cleverly let fall upon Rosario's lap the paper committed to his charge by Louis.
"Look!" he said "the sun is sinking, the maukawis is singing his first evening song; my brother will follow me, he and his warriors will empty these bottles."
The two chiefs walked away, and a few minutes after all the Indians were satisfactorily employed in emptying the bottles brought by the Ulmen.
Doña Rosario could not at first imagine what a message sent to her in such a curious manner could mean, and she looked at her father.
"Read, my Rosario!" Don Tadeo said, softly.
The young girl tremblingly took the note, opened it, and read it with a secret joy. It contained only these few laconic words, but they were sufficient to cause a smile.
"Take courage, señorita, we are preparing everything for saving you at last."
After having read, or rather devoured these words, she gave the note to her father.
"Who can this friend be who is watching over us? What can he do?"
"Why should we doubt the infinite goodness of God, my child?" said Don Tadeo. "Ungrateful girl! Have you forgotten the two brave Frenchmen?"
The young girl smiled through her tears, leaning fondly upon her father.
The Linda could not suppress a feeling of jealousy at this caress of which she had no share; but the hope that her daughter would soon be liberated, rendered her quite happy.
In the meantime the Indians continued drinking. Many of the Aucas were in a helpless state of intoxication. Trangoil-Lanec and Antinahuel were at length the only drinkers. But even the strength of the renowned Toqui was not of avail against the insidious poison he quaffed so greedily; his eyes closed, and he fell backwards—fast asleep.
Trangoil-Lanec waited for a few moments, carefully surveying the camp in which he and the prisoners were the only persons awake; then, when he had ascertained to a certainty that the Black Serpents had really allowed themselves to be caught in the snare he had laid for them, he rose cautiously, made a sign of encouragement to the prisoners, and disappeared into the forest.
"Is that an enemy or a friend?" murmured the Linda anxiously.
"Oh, I have long known that man!" replied Don Tadeo; "his is a noble heart! He is devoted body and soul to our friends."
Louis had not been able to restrain himself; instead of waiting, he had persuaded Valentine and Curumilla to follow him, and all three had advanced, gliding through bushes and underwood, to within twenty paces of the Indian camp, so that Trangoil-Lanec met them almost immediately.
"Well?" the count asked anxiously.
"All is right! Come on!"
The chief quickly retraced his steps, and led his friends towards the prisoners. At the sight of the four men a smile of ineffable sweetness lit up the beautiful countenance of Rosario; even her prudence could not repress a half-uttered cry of joy, Don Tadeo arose, and was beginning to thank them.
"Caballero," cried the count, who was upon hot coals, "let us be quick. These men will soon be awake again."
"Yes," Valentine added; "because if they were to surprise us we should be compelled to have a brush."
All were aware of the justness of this observation and Trangoil-Lanec having unfastened the horses of the prisoners, which were grazing quietly among those of the Aucas, Don Tadeo and his daughter mounted. The Linda, of whom nobody seemed to take any notice, sprang upon a horse. If Valentine had not been afraid of her giving the alarm, he would have compelled her to remain behind. The little troop set off without impediment, and directed their course towards the natural grotto where the horses had been left. As soon as they arrived, Valentine made a sign.
"You had better rest here for a short time," he said; "the night is very dark; in a few hours we will set off again; you will find in this grotto two beds of leaves."
These words, pronounced in the usual blunt, offhand style of the Parisian, brought a cheerful smile to the lips of the Chilians. When they had lain down upon the leaves heaped up in the grotto, the count called his sagacious dog to him, and said—
"Pay attention to what I order you, Cæsar: you see this young lady, do you not, my good dog? You must be answerable for her to me."
Cæsar listened to his master, staring at him with his large intelligent eyes and gently wagging his tail; he then laid himself quietly down at the feet of Rosario, licking her hand. The young girl seized his great head in her arms, and hugged him several times, smiling at the count. Poor Louis blushed to the eyes, and left the grotto, staggering like a drunken man—happiness almost deprived him of his senses. He went and threw himself on the ground at a short distance to think over, at leisure the joy which inundated his heart. He did not observe Valentine, who leaning against a tree, followed him with a melancholy look, for Valentine also loved Doña Rosario.
Yes, the sight of Doña Rosario had revealed to him a thing which he had hardly thought possible, and that was, that besides this so warm and so strong feeling, there was in his heart room for another at least as warm and as strong.
Leaning against a tree, with his eye fixed upon the entrance to the grotto, and his chest heaving, he recalled the smallest incidents of his meeting with the young lady, their journey through the forest, the words she addressed to him and smiled delightedly at the remembrance of those delicious moments, without suspecting the danger of these remembrances of the new feeling which had been just born in his soul.
Two hours had thus glided away, and Valentine had taken no heed of their passage, so absorbed was he in his fantastic contemplation, when the two Indians came up to him—
"Is our brother asleep that he does not see us?"
"No," Valentine replied, passing his hand over his burning brow, "I was thinking."
"My brother was with the genius of dreams; he was happy," Trangoil-Lanec remarked, with a smile.
"Do you want me?"
"Whilst my brother has been reflecting, we have returned to the camp of the Black Serpents. We have taken their horses, and after leading them to a considerable distance have let them loose on the plain."
"If that is the case we may be at our ease for a few hours?" Valentine suggested.
"I hope so," said Trangoil-Lanec, "but we must not be too confident, the Black Serpents are cunning fellows."
"What had we better do, then?"
"Mislead our enemies by putting them upon a false track. I will set off with the three horses of the palefaces, whilst my brother, his friend, and Curumilla descend the rivulet, walking in its bed."
Trangoil-Lanec cut a reed a foot and a half long, and fastened each extremity of it to the bits of the horses, in order that they might not be able to approach each other too near, and then set off. Valentine entered the grotto, where he found the Linda seated near her husband and daughter, guarding their slumbers.
Louis had prepared everything; he placed Don Tadeo upon Valentine's horse, and the Linda and Rosario upon his own, and led them into the rivulet, after having carefully effaced their footsteps in the sand.
The little caravan advanced silently, listening to the noises of the forest, watching the movements of the bushes, fearing at every instant to see the ferocious eye of a Black Serpent gleam through the shade.
Towards four o'clock in the morning the Islet of the Guanaco appeared to the delighted eyes of our travellers like a port of safety, after the fatigues of a journey made entirely in the water. On the most advanced point of the islet a horseman stood motionless—it was Trangoil-Lanec; and near him the horses of the Spaniards were peaceably grazing upon the high grass of the banks. The travellers found a fire ready lighted, upon which was cooking the quarter of a doe, camotes and maize tortillas.
"Eat," said Trangoil-Lanec, laconically; "but, above all, eat quickly!" Without asking the chief for any explanation, the hungry travellers sat down in a circle, and vigorously attacked the provisions.
"Bah!" said Valentine, gaily; "after us the end of the world—let us eat while we can! Here is a roast joint that appears to me to be tolerably well cooked!"
At these words of the spahi Doña Rosario looked a little surprised; the young man was struck dumb, blushing at his rudeness, and began to eat without venturing another word.
As soon as breakfast was over; Trangoil-Lanec, assisted by Curumilla, employed himself in preparing one of those canoes, made of buffalo hides sewn together, which are employed by the Indians to cross the rivers in the desert. After placing it in the water, the chief requested the three Spaniards to take their seats in it. The Indians afterwards entered it for the purpose of steering it; whilst the two Frenchmen, still in the water, led the horses by their bridles. The passage was not long; at the end of an hour they landed, and they continued their journey by land.
For some hours past, as it often happens in that country, the weather had completely changed. The sun had assumed a red tint, and appeared to swim in an ocean of vapour, which intercepted its warm rays.
"What do you think of this weather, chief?" the count asked anxiously to Trangoil-Lanec.
"Bad—very bad," the latter replied, "unless we could possibly pass the Sorcerer's Leap."
"Are we in danger, then?"
"We are lost," the Indian replied.
"Hum! that is not very comforting," said Valentine. "Do you think, then, that the peril is so great?"
"Much greater than I can tell my brother. Do you think it possible to resist the hurricane, here?"
"That is true," Valentine muttered, hanging his head. "May Heaven preserve us!"
In fact the situation of the travellers appeared desperate. They were following one of those roads cut in the living rock which wind round the Andes, a road of scarcely four feet in its greatest width, which on one side was bordered by a wall of granite more than a thousand feet high, and on the other by precipices of incalculable depth, at the bottom of which invisible waters coursed with dull, mysterious murmurs. In such a spot all hope of safety seemed little short of madness. And yet the travellers proceeded, advancing in Indian file—that is, one after the other, silent and gloomy.
"Are we still far from the Sorcerer's Leap?" Valentine asked, after a long silence.
"We are approaching it," Trangoil-Lanec replied.
Suddenly the brown veil which concealed the horizon was rent violently asunder, a pale flash of lightning illuminated the heavens.
"Dismount!" Trangoil-Lanec shouted, "dismount, for your lives! Lie down on the ground, and cling to the points of the rocks!"
Everyone followed the advice of the chief. The animals, left to themselves, understood the danger instinctively, folded their legs under them, and laid themselves down also upon the ground.
All at once the thunder burst forth in frightful peals, and the rain fell like a deluge. It is not given to human pen to describe the awful hurricane which vented its fury upon those mountains. Enormous blocks of rock, yielding to the force of the wind and undermined by the waters, were precipitated from the top to the bottom of the ravines with a horrible crash; trees, hundreds of years Old, were twisted and torn up by the roots by the blast.
Suddenly a piercing cry of agony filled the air.
"My daughter!—save my daughter!"
Heedless of the danger to which he exposed himself, Don Tadeo stood upright in the road, his arms extended towards heaven, his hair floating in the wind, and the lightning playing around his brow. Doña Rosario, too weak and too delicate to cling to the sharp points of the rocks by which her fingers were torn had been seized and carried away, and dashed down the precipice by the tempest. The Linda, without pronouncing a word, turned and plunged into the gulf.
"Oh!" the count cried frantically, "I will bring her back or——"
And he sprang forward; but a powerful hand withheld him.
"Stay, brother," said Valentine, in a melancholy but firm tone—"let me encounter this peril."
"But, Valentine!"
"I insist upon it!—of what consequence is it if I die?" he added, with an expression of bitterness. "I am not beloved!" and turning towards Don Tadeo he said, "Courage my friend. I will restore your daughter or perish with her!" and whistling his dog—"Find her, Cæsar—find her." he said.
The noble animal uttered a plaintive howl, sniffed the air for an instant in all directions, then, after a minute's hesitation wagged his tail, turned towards his master, and dashed down the steep precipice.
As soon as Valentine was suspended from the abrupt edge of the precipice, and obliged to ascertain carefully where to place his foot, his excitement was dispersed to give place to the cool and lucid determination of the brave man. The task he had undertaken was not an easy one. In his perilous descent his eyes became useless to him; his hands and feet were his only guides. Often did he feel the stone upon which he thought he had placed his foot firmly crumble as he began to trust his weight to it, and the branch he had seized break in his grasp.
But firm in his resolution, he kept descending, following as far as was possible the track of his dog, who at a short distance beneath him stopped, from time to time, to guide him by his yelpings.
Presently he stopped to take breath, still continuing to repeat to his dog the words he had never ceased to cry from the commencement of his descent—
"Find her, Cæsar, find her!"
Suddenly the dog was mute. Much alarmed, Valentine renewed his call. It then appeared to him that, at about twenty feet below the spot where he then was, he could perceive a white form; but its outlines were so vague and indistinct that he thought he must be the sport of an illusion, and he ventured to lean still further over, to assure himself that he was not deceived.
At this moment, he felt himself strongly pulled back. Like a man delivered from a frightful nightmare, he took a confused glance around him. Cæsar with his forepaws firmly fixed upon the rock, was holding the end of his poncho in his clenched teeth.
"Can you reply to me now?" the Linda said.
"Perfectly, señorita," he replied.
"You will help me to save my daughter?"
"It was in search of her that I descended."
"Thanks, caballero!" she said, fervently; "she is close by."
Doña Rosario was lying insensible caught in some thick bushes hanging over an abyss of more than a thousand feet in depth! On perceiving her, Valentine's first impression was a feeling of wild terror. But as soon as the first moment was past, and he could look at her coolly, he became satisfied that she was in perfect safety.
All this had required much time, and the storm had subsided by degrees; the mist was clearing off and the sun had reappeared. Valentine then became aware of all the horror of the situation which the darkness had till then concealed from him.
To reascend was impossible; to descend was still worse. From the clump of myrtles near which they were, the walls of the precipice descended in a plumb line, without any salient point upon which a foot could be placed. One step forward was death.
The Linda saw nothing, thought of nothing, for she had her daughter to look at. In vain Valentine racked his brains to discover some means of overcoming this apparently insuperable difficulty. A bark from Cæsar made him raise his head. Louis had found the means which Valentine had despaired of finding. Collecting the lassos which Chilian horsemen always have suspended from their saddles, he had fastened them tightly together and had formed two ropes, which he let down the precipice.
Valentine uttered a cry of joy. Rosario was saved! As soon as the lassos were within his reach he seized them and quickly constructed a chair; but here a new difficulty presented itself; how was it possible to get the insensible girl from amidst the tangled growth?
"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Linda, and bounding like a panther, she sprang into the centre of the tangled mass, which bent under her feet, took her daughter in her arms, and with a spring as sure and as rapid as the first, regained the edge of the precipice.
The young man then tied Doña Rosario in the chair, and then made a signal for hoisting it. The Aucas warriors, directed by Louis, drew the lassos gently and firmly upwards, whilst Valentine and the Linda, clinging as well as they could to points of rocks and bushes, kept the young lady steady, and secured her from collision with the sharp stones that might have wounded her.
As soon as Don Tadeo perceived his daughter, he rushed towards her with a hoarse articulate cry, and pressing her to his panting breast he sobbed aloud, shedding a flood of tears.
"Oh!" cried the girl, clinging with childish terror to her father, and clasping her arms round his neck, "father! father! I thought I must have died!"
"My child," said Don Tadeo, "your mother was the first to fly to your assistance."
The Linda's face glowed with happiness, and she held out her arms to her daughter, with a supplicating look. Rosario looked at her with a mixture of fear and tenderness, and made a motion as if to throw herself into the arms that were open to her; but she suddenly checked herself.
"Oh I cannot! I cannot!"
The Linda heaved a heavy sigh, wiped the tears which inundated her cheeks, and retired on one side.
The two Frenchmen inwardly enjoyed the sight of the happiness of Don Tadeo, happiness which in part he owed to them. The Chilian approached them, pressed their hands warmly, and then turning to Rosario, said—
"My child, love these two gentlemen, you never can discharge your debt to them."
Both the young men blushed.
"Come, come, Don Tadeo," cried Valentine, "we have lost too much time already. To horse, and let us be gone!"
In spite of the roughness of this reply, Doña Rosario, who comprehended the delicacy that had dictated it, gave the young man a look of ineffable sweetness.
The party resumed their march. The Linda was henceforward treated with respect by all. The pardon of Don Tadeo, a pardon so nobly granted, had reinstated her in their eyes. Doña Rosario herself sometimes unconsciously smiled upon her, although she could not yet feel courage enough to respond to her caresses.
At the expiration of an hour they reached the "Sorcerer's Leap." At this place the mountain was divided in two by a fissure of inconceivable depth, and about twenty-five feet wide.
This difficult passage has been thus named by the Aucas because, according to the legend, at the period when the conquest of Araucania was attempted, a Huiliche sorcerer, being closely pursued by Castilian soldiers, leaped without hesitation over the chasm, sustained in his perilous passage by the genii of the air. Whatever be the truth of this legend, a bridge exists now, and our travellers passed over it without accident.
"Ah!" Trangoil-Lanec exclaimed, "now we have room before us, we are safe!"
"Not yet," Curumilla replied, pointing with his finger to a thin column of blue smoke, which curled up towards the heavens.
"Ooch!" replied the chief, "Can that be the Black Serpents again? Can they have preceded instead of pursuing us? How does it happen that they venture in this manner upon the Chilian territory? We had better retire for the night."