The man had indeed the look of one who brings bad news. He seemed to have just left the battlefield—to have escaped from a massacre. His clothes hung in rags, stained with mud and gore; his face, pale as death, had an expression of sadness very strange in such a man. It was with difficulty he held himself upright, so dreadfully jaded he seemed by the struggle he had had to reach the presidio. His spurs left a bloody mark on the floor at every step; and he was forced to support himself on his rifle.
The three men looked at him with mingled fear and pity.
"Here," said Don Fernando, pouring out a tumbler of wine; "drink this; it will restore you."
"No!" said Pablito, thrusting back the glass; "I thirst for blood, not wine!"
These words were uttered in such a tone of hatred and despair, that the listeners involuntarily turned pale, and shuddered with horror.
"What has happened?" said the colonel, in deep anxiety.
The vaquero wiped the cold sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and said, in short, sharp accents, which struck terror into his hearers:
"The Indians are upon us!"
"Have you seen them?" asked the major.
"Yes," said he abruptly; "I have seen them."