Valentine, well versed in Indian customs, replied graciously to this harangue, and the two bands, smiling, made their entry into the village to the sound of the chichikouis, conches, and Indian instruments, mingled with the voices of the women and children, and the barking of the dogs, which produced the most horrible row imaginable.
On reaching the village square, the chief conducted the guests to the huts prepared to receive them, which stood side by side, after which he invited them to rest, with a politeness that a man more civilised than him might have envied, after telling them at twelve o'clock they would be summoned to the meal.
Valentine thanked Pethonista for the kind attention he displayed to him and his comrades: then, after installing Doña Clara in a hut with Sunbeam, he entered his own, after recommending the hunters to display the greatest prudence toward the Comanches, who, like all Indians, are punctilious, irascible, and susceptible to the highest degree.
Curumilla lay down without saying a word, like a good watchdog, across the door of the lodge inhabited by Doña Clara. So soon as the two females were alone, Sunbeam seated herself at the Mexican lady's feet, and, fixing on her a bright glance, full of tenderness, she said, in a soft and caressing voice—
"Is my sister, the White Lily of the Valley, satisfied with me? Have I faithfully fulfilled the obligation I contracted toward her?"
"What obligation was that, child?" the girl said, as she passed her hand through the Indian's long hair which she began plaiting.
"That of saving you, my sister, and conducting you in safety to the callis of my nation."
"Yes, yes, poor girl," she said, tenderly, "your devotion to me has been unbounded, and I know not how I can ever requite it."
"Do not speak of that," the Indian said, with a charming pout. "Now that my sister has nothing more to fear, I will leave her."
"You would leave me, Sunbeam?" Doña Clara exclaimed anxiously. "Why so?"