He raised the young man's senseless head, untied his cravat, and opened his vest; then they perceived the two gaping wounds.
"This is a revenge!" he murmured.
"What is to be done?" said Curumilla, shaking his head discouragingly.
"Let us try to recover him—I hope he is not dead."
And then, with infinite address and incredible celerity, the two Indians bestowed upon the wounded man the most intelligent and most effective cares. For a long time all were useless. At length a sigh, faint as a breath, exhaled painfully from the oppressed breast of the young man; a slight flush tinted his cheeks, and, after several efforts, he opened his eyes. Curumilla, after having washed the wounds with clean cold water, applied a cataplasm to them of bruised oregano leaves.
"Loss of blood alone has made him faint," he said; "the wounds are wide, but not deep, and not at all dangerous."
"But what has been going on here?" Trangoil-Lanec asked.
"Hush!" said Curumilla, laying his hand upon his comrade's arm; "he speaks."
Indeed, the young man's lips did move silently; but, at length, he pronounced with a great effort, and in a voice so low that the Indians scarcely heard it—that single word which for him contained everything—
"Rosario!"