"Oh!" the Linda cried, with tears in her eyes, "I will love her so that she must pardon me."
[CHAPTER XXXVII.]
UPON THE TRACK.
It was the evening of the eighth day, after twenty leagues from Arauca. In a virgin forest of myrtles, cypresses, and espinos, which cover with their green shade the lower parts of the Cordilleras—four men were seated round a fire. Of these four men, two wore the Indian costume, and were no other than Trangoil-Lanec and Curumilla; the others were the count and Valentine.
The spot on which our travellers had halted was one of those glades so common in American forests. It was a vast space covered with the trunks of trees that have died from age, or been struck by lightning, deeply inclosed between two hills.
The Indians were too experienced to commit the fault of stopping of their own accord in this place; and it was only from the impossibility of going further that they had consented to pass the night there.
The day had been a rough one, but the night promised to be mild and tranquil. The travellers attacked their supper bravely, in order to be the sooner able to enjoy the repose they stood so much in need of. They did not exchange a word during the repast; the last morsel swallowed, the Indians threw upon the fire a few armfuls of dry wood, of which they had an ample provision at hand, then folded themselves in their ponchos, and fell asleep. Valentine and Cæsar alone were left to keep guard.
It was almost an hour since he had taken Valentine's place, when Cæsar, who had till that time lain carelessly stretched before the fire, sharply raised his head, sniffed the air in all directions, and gave a surly growl.
"Well, Cæsar," said the young man whilst patting the animal, "what's the matter, my good dog?"