CATASTROPHE.
From the refreshing morning breeze which played in his hair, and calmed his burning brow, Zeno Cabral appeared to draw new life. He stood up boldly; the wrinkles which had furrowed his face disappeared; his beautiful countenance regained its ordinary calmness; and, had not a livid paleness been visible on his features, certainly no one would have guessed the terrible storm which for so many hours bad agitated his heart.
With a piercing look he examined the landscape, which the evening before he could but half see through the last hours of the day.
That plain, encircled by high and snowy mountains, which masked the horizon; that river with its silvery waves, which cut it into two nearly equal parts; those umbrageous woods, scattered here and there, as far as the hill, on the summit of which he had so magnificent a prospect—the least feature, in fact, recalled completely the landscape which was so engraven on his memory.
This place was that which he had wished to reach, and towards which, for so many days, he had so furiously galloped.
A smile of sad satisfaction half-opened his pale lips, for by certain undulations of the grass—undulations which would have been imperceptible by anyone but himself—he saw that Diogo had not been deceived; that his allies were already at their post, and that this plain, apparently so tranquil and so solitary, would soon be animated and excited at a cry from himself; that thousands of men, now crouching concealed in the grass, would suddenly arise, and would bound with their war cry at his first signal.
"At last!"
The expression summed up a life of struggle to arrive at an end, now to be gained.
He remained some short time pensive; then, proudly raising his head, he passed his hand over his forehead, as if to chase away some importunate thought, and rapidly approached the fire, before which the old officer was still stretched, sleeping.