"Of course not, for that would be certain death. Diego López, give me your flask if there is any liquor in it."
"It is quite full," the peon said, handing it to him.
The Canadian mixed a little mezcal with water in a leaf he bent up, and then rubbed the temples, wrists, and stomach of the wounded man with it; after which, thrusting the knife blade between his teeth, he opened his mouth by main force, and made him swallow a few drops, while Diego López continued the friction, and the count, kneeling behind the young man, kept him in a sitting posture. For nearly a quarter of an hour their efforts seemed to produce no effect on the wounded man; still the Canadian, far from giving in, redoubled his exertions, and ere long had cause to congratulate himself on his perseverance when he saw the young man make a slight movement.
"Heaven be thanked!" the count said, joyfully, "He is regaining his senses."
"Indeed is he," said the Canadian, "look at him waking up."
In fact, Don Melchior, after making a few convulsive efforts, feebly opened his eyes, but, blinded by the sunbeams, closed them again.
"Courage," the Canadian said to him, "courage, comrade, you have friends near you."
The young man, at the sound of this voice, seemed to return to his senses completely, his pale cheeks were tinged with a hectic flush; he opened his eyes, looked round him in amazement, and, making an effort to speak, he murmured in a weak, almost indistinct voice—
"The Indians—the Indians—save Doña Diana—save—save—Doña Emilia!"
And, worn by the effort he had made, he fell back inanimate in the count's arms; the latter laid him gently on the ground, and rose eagerly.