In front of the tent--as I had whispered to her--I lay upon the ground,
enfolded in my cloak. It was not the cold that kept me from sleeping,
but the proximity--I might almost say the _presence_ of that fair
creature, since only a sheet of thin canvas was between us.
I will not confess my thoughts; they are unworthy of being recorded.
Even my dreams--for I had short intervals of sleep, during which I
dreamt--all tended to one theme:--the enjoyment of the beautiful
Jarocha.
I listened long, with my ear keenly bent to catch the slightest sound.
I felt no interest in the noises without. The night was now hastening
towards day, and the sufferers who had been making it hideous seemed to
have become wearied with wailing, for their voices were no longer heard.
Alone echoed upon the air the mocking strains of the _czentzontle_,
perched upon the summit of an acacia, and answering a friend, perhaps an
enemy, far off on the opposite side of the _barranca_.
The bird music fell unheeded on my ear, as did all other sounds
proceeding from without. Even the firing of a gun would scarcely have
distracted my attention from listening for any murmur that might reach
me from the interior of the tent.