"Yes," Don Miguel answered, mechanically. Brighteye held his gourd to him.
"Still," he continued, after a moment, "I have not been dreaming."
"Who knows?"
"Those shots, the shouts I heard?"
"Quite a trifle;—a jaguar I killed, and which you can see a few yards off."
There was silence for a few minutes: Don Miguel was thinking deeply; light was beginning to dawn on his mind, his memory was returning. The hunter anxiously followed on the young man's face the incessant progress of returning thought. At length a flash of intelligence lit up the young man's eye, and fixing his feverish glance on the old hunter, he asked him,—"How long is it since you saved me?"
"Scarce three hours."
"Then, since the events that brought me here—there has only passed—?"
"One night."
"Yes!" the young man continued in a deep voice, a terrible voice, "I fancied I was dead."