"I will not stir!"
A nervous tremor shook the limbs of the chief, who had now attained the highest paroxysm of fury.
"If you will have it so," he cried, in a husky, but loud voice, "your blood be upon your own head!"
And he dug the spurs into the sides of his horse, which plunged with pain, and then sprung forward like an arrow, dragging along the poor woman, whose body was soon but one huge wound. A cry of horror burst from the quivering lips of the terrified Indians. After a few minutes of this senseless course, during which she had left fragments of her flesh on every sharp point of the road, the strength of the Indian woman abandoned her; she left her hold of the bridle, and sank dying.
"Oh!" she said, in a faint voice, and following, with a look dimmed by agony, her son, as he was borne away like a whirlwind, "my unhappy son! my unhappy——"
She raised her eyes towards heaven, clasped her mangled hands, as if to offer up a last prayer, and fell back.
She died pitying the matricide, and pardoning him. The women of the tribe took up the body respectfully, and carried it, weeping, into the toldo. At the sight of the corpse, an old Indian shook his head several times, murmuring in a prophetic tone,—
"Antinahuel has killed his mother! Pillian will avenge her!"
And all bowed down their heads sorrowfully: this atrocious crime made them dread horrible misfortunes in the future.