“What misfortune can compare with mine? what agony as great to bear? how—”
Seeing his companion’s eyes fixed interrogatively upon him, he stopped short, conscious he had been unduly excited and heedless. Turning sharply to his peeping-place, he said:
“Senors, we have lessened their number; of them there remains but six. One or two more killed or disabled would entirely free us, I think, from their annoying company. Come, senors, look sharp!”
Duncan and Robidoux exchanged significant glances but said nothing, only quietly taking their places at the entrance, leaving Mr. Wheeler stricken again by his gloomy spirits.
And now faint streaks of daylight slanted across the eastern horizon, and the yellow moonlight paled before the approach of the predominating daylight. Perched upon the hubs of the wagon-wheels the sullen Apaches grunted and growled at their constant defeats, not daring to return to the hill, and too wary to expose any part of their bodies. The whites watched and waited with the eyes of a lynx and the patience of a cat, but to no avail—both parties were afraid to show themselves.
“Hark!” suddenly cried Mr. Wheeler, springing into the center of the cave. “What is it—who speaks?”
“No one spoke, senor,” said Pedro, calmly laying his hand on his shoulder; “you are nervous and excited, senor—lie down and quiet yourself.”
“Don’t talk to me of rest and peace—withdraw your hand! She spoke—my daughter—and I will never rest until I have found her.”
In the gloomy light, his eyes shone with at once the sorrow and anger of a wounded stag; and knowing to resist him would be to endanger his present health, Pedro considerately withdrew his hand. As he did so Duncan whispered:
“I’ll swear I heard her voice, just then—every hair of my head, I did.”