As he disappeared down the bank the Veraguans uttered yells of disappointed rage; but through those sounds there fell upon his ears, with an accent of bitter disappointment, a most piteous moan. Poor Don had given his body as a shield for his companion, and now that he lay suffering, perhaps dying, his companion was forsaking him. Don felt that to be very hard lines, and so he howled out his sorrow. He certainly would not have treated his friend so, and though his friend was only a human being, and not a faithful dog, he had imagined this especial human being to be different to most. It seemed he was mistaken, and so he howled for his disappointment. And Montoro heard the mournful howl, and understood all it said as well as if it had been the very longest and most comprehensive German word that even Bret Harte ever got hold of.
Ten seconds later the spectators on board the ship saw the lad remounting the bank with a wild bound, actually returning towards his enemies—one unarmed, defenceless boy against half-a-dozen fierce warriors.
"And all for the sake of a dog," said Alaminos to him some time later with a touch of anger.
"All for the sake of a creature that cried to me for aid," was the reply. "And ere I cease to care for such, I trust that I may no longer cumber the earth."
But during those present moments, while Montoro was climbing the bank, the pilot was standing with wide eyes gazing across at him, and wondering greatly as to the motives for his strange proceeding. He had forgotten about the dog, or thought it was dead and done for.
Poor old Don himself knew better. He was lying there helpless, with three arrows in his faithful side; but he was not yet too dead or done for to be able to give vent to an ecstatic weak squeak of a bark when he caught sight again of his beloved master.
So astounded were the Indians that they beat a momentary retreat into the forest, while Montoro knelt down and pulled the arrows out of the dog's wounds, Don the while alternately licking his hands and moaning. But it was no time just then for delicate handling. The three arrows were out in little more than as many seconds, and then with an inspiriting "Hi, good dog," Diego roused up the poor animal and pulled it down the bank with him once more, just as a second flight of arrows sped more truly to their intended mark. This time Diego quivered, and uttered one sharp, irrepressible cry as four of the darts struck and pierced his unprotected flesh. Pulling out the one most accessible, he plunged into the water, the dog with him. The Indians rushed forward. For those past few seconds they had imagined he must have some means of defence at hand to make him so daring, but now they were undeceived, and proportionably brave, themselves. Another flight of arrows was launched, this time happily with such eager, excited haste as to be harmless. But what advantage was that? The foe had plenty more arrows, and would apparently have plenty more time to shoot them at their wished-for target, for both the lad and the dog were evidently much hurt, and were swimming very slowly and feebly.
Then it was that Antonio de Alaminos wrung his hands and groaned over his favourite's impending fate. But the Admiral did something better than groan. There was no possibility of getting a boat across from the building-ground in time to be of any use, and the position was imminent. One more glance was cast by the father at his young son rapidly nearing the vessel, and still unconscious of his friend's danger, and then the order was shouted forth—"Fire off the guns—wait not to take aim."
Answering shouts of comprehension greeted the order, and as the guns were now always in a state of readiness for immediate use, it was obeyed with almost incredible speed, so great was the eagerness to save the young life now in jeopardy. Even while the exhausted Montoro was plunging himself and Don under water to escape another shower of arrows, there came the flash, the roar of the four falconets, followed by peal upon peal of the most frantic screechings from the Indians. Whether they were hurt was very doubtful, but it was evident enough that they were madly terrified. Flinging away their weapons, they decamped into the shelter of the forest again, and it was only by the fading sound of the continued shrieks that the direction of their retreat towards the village could be learnt.
"That was a lucky thought—to fight by fear," said Diego Mendez with a sigh of relief, as he prepared to spring into the river to the further aid of the rescued Montoro; but the Admiral checked him one moment, saying reverently—