After looking at the body attentively, the old chief drew a knife from his girdle, held the blade for two or three minutes across the mouth, withdrew it again, and examined it. He thought it was slightly tarnished; then he knelt down by Don Fernando, seized his left arm, ripped up the sleeve, and, having felt for the vein, pricked it with the delicate point of his knife.
Then followed an instant of anxious suspense. The looks of all were fixed on the wounded man. This attempt would be the last; if it did not succeed, all was over: he knew of no other means to recall him to life. The vaqueros continued the friction.
At the puncture made by the chief's knife, there appeared at last a dark speck; little by little it increased in size, till it grew into a black point, which finally became a bead of jet: this trembled for a moment, and then fell rolling down the arm, pressed forward by another which succeeded it, and immediately made room for a third; then the blood grew less black and less thick, and finally gushed out in a long vermillion stream.
The Tigercat could not repress a shout of triumph; Don Fernando was saved. In fact, after the lapse of a minute, the latter moved slightly and uttered a deep sigh.
The Indian chief rose, after binding up Don Fernando's arm and signed to Pablito to follow him into another compartment of the rancho, requesting Don Torribio to remain for a time where he was.
Without waiting for the question which the vaquero was about to ask, and which he saw playing about his finely chiselled lips, the chief began to speak with a feverish haste, betraying the secret agitation of his mind.
"You see what has happened," he said.
"But you yourself willed it so!" said Pablito, utterly surprised.
"Yes, I did will it; and I thank God for having spared me this odious crime!"
"If you are satisfied, all will go well."