This example was quickly followed by his companions.
The cries of distress had ceased; and the silence and the darkness of the place rendered it rather difficult for our Don Quixote to decide where to turn his steps and the point of his sword for the delivery of the distressed damsel.
“We must scatter ourselves, boys! Each must take a different direction and beat about the woods until we discover the cause of those cries! And he who first comes upon the scene of violence must shout for the others! Now go! And may Heaven grant that we may be in time!” hastily exclaimed Justin, waving his sword in the directions he wished the others to take, and then turning and striking deeper into the shadows of the grove.
It was very still and dark. Nothing could be seen but the occasional glance of a star, peeping down between the upper branches of the trees; and nothing could be heard but the ripple of a stream, hidden somewhere in the deep, dry undergrowth of the thicket.
Justin was completely bewildered, knowing not which way to turn.
“The unfortunate woman, whoever she is, must be murdered or worse before this! At all events, she is silenced,” he said to himself.
At that moment another cry arose; but this time it was a man’s voice—weak, quavering, cracked—but unmistakably a man’s voice, crying:
“Help! Murder! Help! Oh, all good Christians, help!”
“Gracious Heavens! has the woman got the better now, and is she killing the man; or what is the meaning of this second outcry?” exclaimed the colonel, in droll perplexity.
And guided by the cries, he clutched his sword with a firmer clasp, and strode on in the direction from which they came. He had not gone many yards before the cries arose for the third time; and now, as in the first instance, it was the woman’s voice, screaming: