[CHAPTER XVII.]
THE PEONS.
A strange spectacle, and which he was certainly far from expecting, offered itself to his astonished eyes.
The platform, or rather the court situated before the rancho, was occupied by some twenty individuals, who were crying out and gesticulating with fury, and in the midst of whom was the painter, his head uncovered, his hair flying in the wind, his right foot placed on his gun, which had been thrown on the ground before him, and a pistol in each hand.
Behind the young man, five or six Indians, his servants, with their guns at their shoulders, ready to fire.
At the door of the shed the loaded mules and the saddled horses were held by two or three Indians armed with guns and sabres.
By the light of the torches, the red flames of which threw out a strange reflection, the scene assumed a fantastic appearance of a remarkable character, rudely contrasting with the profound darkness which reigned on the plain, and which the varying light of the torches illuminated at each gust of the night wind.
The old man, without seeking an explanation of this mournful drama, but instinctively understanding that something was passing in which he was personally interested, darted forward boldly to the side of his young companion.
"What is it?" he cried. "Are we attacked?"