Captain Charles de Laville, though still very young, seemed predestined for the part he was playing at this moment. His glance was infallible, both as superior chief and as a subordinate leader: he not only understood with extreme rapidity the orders he received, but seized their meaning and carried them out with rare intelligence.[1] The count had not been in error for a moment about de Laville's brilliant qualities. Hence he had made him a favourite, and, whenever he had a difficult duty to intrust to anyone, he gave it to him, certain that he would perform it with honour. The success surpassed his hopes on this occasion; for De Laville executed the advance movement with such precision and in such profound silence that the count almost found himself up with the rear before he suspected he was anywhere near it.
In order to march more rapidly, and not be in any way detained, the captain had left his wagons and baggage at a deserted rancho about a league from the city, under the guard of the invalids, who, although too weak to fight in the ranks of the company, could yet, behind intrenchments, offer a sufficiently lengthened resistance to allow their comrades to come to their assistance.
The count passed through the ranks, saluted in an affectionate voice by his men, and placed himself at the head of the column. For two months past the fatigue Don Louis had endured, and the constant state of excitement in which events kept him, had seriously injured his health; and it was only by his energy and will that he succeeded in conquering his illness and keeping upright. He understood that if he gave way all was lost: hence he wrestled with his sufferings, and though a fever devoured him, his face remained calm, and nothing revealed to his comrades the sufferings he endured with the courage of a stoic. Still he suddenly felt himself attacked by such a feeling of weakness, that had not Valentine, who guessed his condition, and watched over him like a mother, held him in his arms, he must have fallen from his horse.
"What is the matter, brother?" the hunter asked him affectionately.
"Nothing," he answered, as he passed his hand over his forehead, which was dank with icy perspiration and fatigue; "but," he added, "it has gone off now."
"Take care, brother," he said to him with a sad shrug of his shoulders: "you do not nurse yourself enough."
"Eh? Can I do it? But be not alarmed. I know what I want: the smell of powder will restore me. Look, look! we have reached our destination at last."
In fact, by the first rays of the sun, which rose majestically above the horizon, Hermosillo, with its white houses glistening, now was visible about a cannon shot off. An immense shout of joy from the whole company greeted the so-ardently-desired appearance of the city. The order to halt was given. The city was silent—it seemed deserted: not a sound was heard within its walls. So calm, quiet, and dumb was it, that you might have fancied that you had before you that city in the Arabian Nights which a wicked enchanter struck with his wand and plunged into eternal sleep.
The country was deserted. Only here and there the fragments of arms, uniforms, sandals, the footsteps of horses, and the furrows of carts indicated the recent passage of General Guerrero's troops. The count examined the city for a while with the utmost attention, in order to make his final arrangements, when suddenly two horsemen appeared on the bridge to which we have already alluded, and galloped toward the company, waving a flag of truce.
"Let us see what these persons want," the count said.