But the emotion that this unhoped-for sight had produced was too much; a terrible reaction ensued; the young man grew frightfully pale, he staggered, and fainted. Don Zeno disappeared.
The next day, about an hour before sunrise, the encampment of the Montoneros presented at once one of the most singular and picturesque sights.
The signal to arouse had been given to the squadron by Zeno Cabral, and the officers went from soldier to soldier to awaken them, which the latter did with very ill grace, grumbling, stretching themselves, and yawning almost enough to displace their jaws, declaring that daylight had not yet come.
But at last, willing or not, in some ten minutes' time everybody was astir.
The squadron of Zeno Cabral was, perhaps, the finest and the best organised of all the Banda Oriental; it was composed of about six hundred men, all chosen carefully by their chief, their courage having been tried. It was, in fact, for a squadron formed only of volunteers, a first-rate corps.
When the sun at last appeared above the horizon all the soldiers were fresh, in good condition, completely armed, and ready to fight.
The general, as they called their chief, passed them carefully in review, to assure himself personally that all was in good order.
The breakfast finished, the nostrils of the horses were covered with cloths to prevent them neighing, and on a sign from Zeno Cabral each man went immediately to occupy a post which had been previously assigned him.
Five minutes later all the Montoneros had disappeared; there remained in the glade only Zeno Cabral and his staff.
Precautions had been so well taken—the orders of the partisan executed with so much intelligence—that it would have been impossible for even the most skilful Indian to guess that a numerous corps of cavalry had for several days camped in this spot.