The night was dark; the moon, hidden by thick clouds, fringed with greyish tints, gave no light; the sky was black; dull sounds were carried on the wind, and, repeated by the echoes, awakened the wild beasts in the depth of their secret lairs.
A funereal silence reigned over the camp, where all the fires were extinguished; the sentinels were mute, and their long motionless shadows stood out in relief from the darker tints of the surrounding hills. Towards four o'clock in the morning, when the horizon began to be tinged by greyish streaks of light, the noise of horses was heard.
The captives understood that the moment of their departure had come.
They had passed the night in prayer, without sleep having come for a single minute to close their eyelids.
At the first knock at their door they opened it.
A man entered; it was Don Pablo. A thick cloak enveloped him, and a broad-brimmed hat was pulled over his eyes.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
"We are," laconically answered the marchioness.
"Here are your horses, ladies," said the Pincheyra; "will you mount?"
"Are we to leave immediately?" ventured the marchioness.