In his girdle he carried a pair of long pistols, and a sword with a straight and wide blade, called a machete, passed through an iron ring instead of a sheath, hung on his left side. Two rifles, one of which doubtless belonged to him, were leant against the trunk of the tree, and a magnificent mustang, picketed a few yards off, was nibbling the young tree shoots.
What it has taken us so long to describe, the Indian saw at a glance; but it appeared as if this scene, which he was so far from anticipating, was not very cheering to him, for he frowned portentously, and could hardly restrain an exclamation of surprise and disappointment on seeing the two persons.
By an instinctive movement of prudence he cocked his rifle, and after he had done this, he went on watching what was doing in the clearing.
At length the man dressed in the monk's gown made a slight movement as if to rise, and partly opened his eyes; but too weak yet, probably, to endure the brilliancy of the sunbeams, though they were filtered through the dense foliage, he closed them again; still, the individual who was nursing him, saw that he had regained his senses, by the movement of his lips, which quivered as if he were murmuring a prayer in a low voice.
Considering, therefore, that, for the present at least, his attentions were no longer needed by his patient, the stranger rose, took his rifle, leant his crossed hands on the muzzle, and awaited stoically, after giving a look round the clearing, whose gloomy and hateful expression caused the Indian Chief to give a start of terror in his leafy hiding place.
Several minutes elapsed, during which no sound was audible, save the rustling of the stream over its bed, and the mysterious murmur of the insects of all descriptions hidden beneath the grass.
At length the man lying on the ground made a second movement, stronger than the first, and opened his eyes.
After looking wildly around him, his eyes were fastened with a species of strange fascination on the tall old man, still standing motionless by his side, and who gazed on him in return with a mingled feeling of ironical compassion and sombre melancholy.
"Thanks," he at last murmured, in a weak voice.
"Thanks for what?" the stranger asked, harshly.