One evening the two were seated in a room of the house they occupied in common, and smoking a pipe after dinner.
"You will come with me, my brother, I trust?" the count said, turning to Valentine.
"Then you really mean to go?" the latter said with a sigh.
"What are we doing here?"
"Nothing, it is true. My life is a burden to me, as yours is to you; but we have before us the boundless desert, the immense horizon of the prairies. Why not recommence our happy life of hunting and liberty, instead of trusting to the fallacious promises of these heartless Mexicans, who have already made you suffer so deeply, and whose infamous treachery brought you to your present condition?"
"I must," the count said with resolution.
"Listen," Valentine went on. "You no longer possess that ardent enthusiasm which sustained you on your first expedition. You lack faith. You do not yourself believe in success."
"You are mistaken, brother. I am more certain of, success now than I was then; for I have as my allies the men who were formerly my most obstinate foes."
Valentine burst into a mocking laugh.
"Do you still believe in that?" he said to him.