What was to be done became now the question. We were at least thirty miles from Bexar, and not a village, nor even a log-hut, between us and that city. To go back was impossible; so that, like practical people, we at once addressed ourselves to the available alternative.
“Picket your beast, and let us light a fire,” said Fra Miguel, with the air of a man who would not waste life in vain regrets. “Thank Providence, we have both grass and water; and although the one always brings snakes, and the other alligators, it is better than to bivouac on the Red River, with iron ore in the stream, and hard flints to sleep on.”
Fastening my beast to a tree, I unstrapped my saddlebags and removed my saddle; disposing which most artistically in the fashion of an arm-chair for Donna Maria at the foot of a stupendous beech, I set about the preparation of a fire. The Friar, however, had almost anticipated me, and, with both arms loaded with dead wood, sat himself down to construct a species of hearth, placing a little circle of stones around in such a way as to give a draught to the blaze.
“We must fast to-night, Senhor,” said he; “but it will count to us hereafter. Fan the fire with your hat, it will soon blaze briskly.”
“If it were not for that young lady,” said I, “whose sufferings are far greater than ours—”
“Speak not of her, Señhor; Donna Maria de los Dolores was called after our Mother of Sorrows, and she may as well begin her apprenticeship to grief. She is the only child of my brother, who had sent her to be educated at New Orleans, and is now returning home to see her father, before she takes the veil of her novitiate.”
A very low sigh—so low as only to be audible to myself—came from beneath the beech-tree; and I threw a handful of dry chips upon the fire, hoping to catch a glimpse of the features of my fair fellow-traveller. Fra Miguel, however, balked my stratagem by topping the fire with a stout log, as he said, “You are too spendthrift, Señhor; we shall need to husband our resources, or we 'll not have enough for the night long.”
“Would you not like to come nearer to the blaze, Senhora?” said I, respectfully.
“Thanks, sir, but perhaps—”
“Speak out, child,” broke in the Father, “speak out, and say that you are counting your rosary, and would not wish to be disturbed. And you, Senhor, if I err not, in your eagerness to aid us have forgotten to water your gallant beast: don't lead him to the stream, that would be unsafe; take my sombrero: it has often served a like purpose before now. Twice full is enough for any horse in these countries.” I would have declined this offer, but I felt that submission in everything would be my safest passport to his good opinion; and so, armed with the “Friar's beaver,” I made my way to the stream.