"This: the hatchet of Toqui is withdrawn from my father; all the Araucanian warriors are released from their oath of fidelity to him; fire and water are refused to my father; he is declared a traitor to his country, as are all those who do not obey, and remain with him. The Araucanian nation will no longer serve as a plaything, and be the victim of the wild ambition of a man unworthy of commanding it."
During this terrific peroration Antinahuel had remained motionless, his arms crossed upon his breast.
"Have you finished?" he asked.
"I have finished," the Lynx replied; "now the herald will go and proclaim in your camp what I have told you at the council fire."
"Well, let him go!" Antinahuel replied. "You are welcome to withdraw from me the hatchet of Toqui. Of what importance is that vain dignity to me? You may declare me a traitor to my country; I have on my side my own conscience, which absolves me; but what you wish above all else to have you shall not have and that is my prisoners. Farewell!"
And with a step as firm as if nothing had happened to him, he returned to his camp. But there a great mortification awaited him. At the summons of the herald all his warriors abandoned him. One after the other, some with joy, others with sorrow. He who five minutes before counted more than eight hundred warriors under his orders, saw their numbers diminish so rapidly that soon only thirty-eight were left.
The Lynx called out an ironical farewell to him from a distance, and departed at a gallop with all his troop. When Antinahuel counted the small number of friends left to him, an immense grief weighed upon his heart; he sank down at the foot of a tree, covered his face with his poncho, and wept.
In the meantime, thanks to the facilities which the Linda had procured Don Tadeo, the latter had been able for some days past to approach Rosario. The presence of the man who had brought her up was a great consolation to the young lady; but when Don Tadeo, who had thenceforward no reasons for secrecy, confessed to her that he was her father, an inexpressible joy took possession of the poor child. It appeared to her that she now had no longer anything to dread, and that since her father was with her she should easily escape the horrible love of Antinahuel. The Linda, whom Don Tadeo allowed from pity to be near her, beheld with childish joy the father and daughter talking together.
This woman was really a mother, with all the devotedness and all the abnegation which the title implies. She no longer lived for anything but her daughter.
Whilst the events we have described were taking place, the three Chilians, crouched in a corner of the camp, absorbed by their own feelings, had attended to nothing—seen or heard nothing. Don Tadeo and Rosario were seated at the foot of a tree, and at some distance the Linda, without daring to mingle in their conversation, contemplated them with delight. His first grief calmed, Antinahuel recovered himself, and was as haughty and as implacable as ever. On raising his eyes his looks fell mechanically upon his prisoners.