Pain and sorrow were delineated on Pedrito's face. He, whose whole life had been but one long drama, who had no faith in his heart, who was ignorant of gentle feelings and sweet sympathies, he, the bombero, the slayer of Indians, was moved and felt something new stir within him. Two heavy tears ran down his bronzed cheeks.
"Can she be dead? Oh Heaven!"
This name, which he had hitherto only used in blasphemy, he uttered almost with respect. It was a sort of prayer and cry from his heart. This man believed.
"How to help her?" he asked himself.
The rain that fell in torrents eventually restored the maiden, who, half opening her eyes, murmured in a faint voice;
"Where am I? What has happened?"
"She speaks, she lives, she is saved," Pedrito exclaimed.
"Who is there?" she asked, raising herself with difficulty.
At the sight of the bombero's gloomy face, she had a fresh outburst of terror, closed her eyes again, and fell back exhausted.
"Reassure yourself, my girl. I am your friend."