[CHAPTER XIII.]
THE MIDNIGHT MEETING.
In the meantime Don Fernando Carril, bending over his horse's mane, was gliding through the night like a phantom.
Thanks to the precaution he had taken of wrapping pieces of sheepskin round the hoofs of the horse, he passed on silently and rapidly as the spectre-horseman of the German ballad, making the frightened packs of coyotes fly before his career.
Gradually he neared the banks of the river, which he forded without slackening his speed; inciting his steed by voice and gesture, and throwing sharp glances to right and left, before and behind him.
His flight lasted full three hours, during which the Mexican never allowed his favourite a moment's respite to fetch his breath and rest his tired limbs.
But when at last he arrived at a spot on the narrow river, where it rolled its muddy waters between low banks lined with tufted cotton trees, he alighted in a thick coppice, and, having convinced himself he was alone, plucked a handful of grass, and rubbed his horse down with that care, and solicitude of which those alone are capable whose lives may at any moment depend on the speed of their faithful and devoted companion. Then taking off the bridle, and leaving him to graze on the tall and abundant grasses, the Mexican spread his zarapé on the ground, and closed his eyes.
Nothing troubled the silence of the night; no sound arose in the desert. Don Fernando lay motionless as a corpse, his eyes still closed, and his head supported by his left arm; and thus he lay for two hours.