While the gauchos were plotting, in company of Don Pablo Pincheyra, the death of General Moratín, Zeno Cabral, who at a distance had perceived them at the moment when they left the tent to ensconce themselves in the thicket, had concealed his horse, and, cutting across country, had proceeded to the spot where they were.
Zeno had been invisibly present, not only at the serio-comic turns of fortune in their game at monte, but also had heard every syllable of their conversation with the Pincheyra. It is notable that the projects of Don Pablo squared with his own, for a smile of satisfaction played on his lips at this unexpected revelation.
His negotiation terminated, the partisan had immediately resolved on quitting the bad company, to meet with which he had been compelled to go out of his way.
Loud snoring soon told him the gauchos soundly slept; then he rose stealthily, saddled his horse, leaped in the saddle without touching the stirrup, and, despite the darkness, rapidly galloped off across the desert.
This journey, made at such an hour in the darkness in so wild a region, would probably have been fatal to anyone but the bold Montonero.
The whole night passed thus. At the break of day the Montonero had made twenty leagues and crossed two rivers.
His horse, knocked up with fatigue, stumbled at every step; and the Montonero was obliged to stop if he would not have his horse fall dead under him.
He halted on the border of a wood, removed the harness from his horse, rubbed him down vigorously with a handful of dry grass, washed his nostrils, withers, and legs with water mixed with brandy, and then let him free.
The animal neighed two or three times with pleasure, and rolled himself with delight on the grass.
"It is four o'clock," said he, examining the sky; "at nine o'clock I will set off; now for some sleep." With that self-control which certain exceptional natures possess, he closed his eyes and soon slept. At nine o'clock exactly, as he had promised himself, he awoke.