"This will cheer us; and, in truth, we all need cheering. I fancy
there's enough to last us till Manuel makes his reappearance with a
fresh supply. Strange his not having returned. He's had time to do all
his bargainings and been back three days ago. I hoped to see him home
before our friends took departure, so that I could better have provided
them for their journey. They'll stand a fair chance of being famished."
"No fear of that," puts in Don Prospero.
"Why do you say so, doctor?"
"Because of the rifle I gave to Senor Gualtero. With it he will be able
to keep both provisioned. 'Tis marvellous how he can manage it. He has
killed bits of birds without spoiling their skins or even ruffling a
feather. I'm indebted to him for some of my best specimens. So long as
he carries a gun, with ammunition to load it, you need have no fear he
or his companion will perish from hunger, even on the Llano Estacado."
"About that," rejoins Miranda, "I think we need have no uneasiness.
Beyond lies the thing to be apprehended--not on the desert, but amid
cultivated fields, in the streets of towns, in the midst of so-called
civilisation. There will be their real danger."
For some time the three are silent, their reflections assuming a sombre
hue, called forth by the colonel's words.
But the doctor, habitually light-hearted, soon recovers, and makes an
effort to imbue the others with cheerfulness like his own.
"Senorita," he says, addressing himself to Adela, "your guitar, hanging
there against the wall, seems straining its strings as if they longed
for the touch of your fair fingers. You've been singing every night for
the last month, delighting us all I hope you won't be silent now that
your audience is reduced, but will think it all the more reason for
bestowing your favours on the few that remain."
To the gallant speech of pure Castilian idiom, the young lady answers
with a smile expressing assent, at the same time taking hold of her
guitar. As she reseats herself, and commences tuning the instrument, a
string snaps.
It seems an evil omen; and so all three regard it, though without
knowing why. It is because, like the strings of the instrument, their
hearts are out of tune, or rather attuned to a presentiment which
oppresses them.
The broken string is soon remedied by a knot; this easily done. Not so
easy to restore the tranquillity of thought disturbed by its breaking.
No more does the melancholy song which succeeds. Even to that far land
has travelled the strain of the "Exile of Erin." Its appropriateness to
their own circumstances suggesting itself to the Mexican maiden, she
sings--
Sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee,
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
"Dear Adela!" interrupts Miranda. "That song is too sad. We're already
afflicted with its spirit. Change it for one more cheerful. Give us a
lay of the Alhambra--a battle-song of the Cid or the Campeador--
something patriotic and stirring."
Obedient to her brother's request, the young girl changes tune and song,
now pouring forth one of those inimitable lays for which the language of
Cervantes is celebrated.
Despite all, the heaviness of heart remains, pressing upon those who
listen as on her who sings. Adela's voice appears to have lost its
accustomed sweetness, while the strings of her guitar seem equally out
of tune.
All at once, while in the middle of her song, the two bloodhounds, that
have been lying on the floor at her feet, start from their recumbent
position, simultaneously giving utterance to a growl, and together rush
out through the open door.
The singing is instantly brought to an end; while Don Valerian and the
doctor rise hastily from their chairs.
The bark of watch-dog outside some quiet farmhouse, amidst the homes of
civilisation, can give no idea of the startling effect which the same
sound calls forth on the far Indian frontier--nothing like the alarm
felt by the dwellers in that lone ranche. To add to it, they hear a
hoof striking on the stones outside--that of either horse or mule. It
cannot be Lolita's; the mustang mare is securely stalled, and the
hoof-stroke comes not from the stable. There are no other animals.
Their late guests have taken away the two saddle mules, while the _mulas
de carga_ are with the messenger, Manuel.
"It's he come back!" exclaims the doctor. "We ought to be rejoiced
instead of scared. Come, Don Valerian! we shall have our smoke yet
before going to bed."
"It's not Manuel," answers Miranda. "The dogs would have known him
before this. Hear how they keep on baying! Ha! what's that? Chico's
voice! Somebody has caught hold of him!"
A cry from the peon outside, succeeded by expostulations, as if he was
struggling to escape--his voice commingled with shrill screams from
Conchita--are sounds almost simultaneous.
Don Valerian strides back into the room and lays hold of his sword, the
doctor clutching at the first weapon that presents itself.
But weapons are of no avail where there are not enough hands to wield
them.
Into the cabin lead two entrance doors--one front, the other back--and
into both is seen pouring a stream of armed men, soldiers in uniform.
Before Miranda can disengage his sword from its scabbard, a perfect
_chevaux-de-frise_ of lance-points are within six inches of his breast,
while the doctor is similarly menaced.
Both perceive that resistance will be idle. It can only end in their
instant impalement.
"Surrender, rebels!" cries a voice rising above the din.
"Drop your weapons, and at once, if you wish your lives spared!
Soldiers, disarm them!"
Miranda recognises the voice. Perhaps, had he done so sooner, he would
have held on to his sword, and taken the chances of a more protracted
and desperate resistance.
It is too late. As the weapon is wrested from his grasp, he sees
standing before him the man of all others he has most reason to fear--
Gil Uraga!