"Where are we going?" Doña Anita asked in a trembling voice.
"To a place where we can be happy together," the Tigrero answered gently, as he lifted her with a passionate movement, and ran off with her to the canoe. Doña Anita made no resistance: she smiled and threw her arms round her lover's neck to keep her balance during this steeplechase, in which Don Martial leaped from branch to branch, holding on by the creepers and encouraging his lovely burden by signs and looks. Cucharés had placed Don Sylva in the bottom of the canoe, and, paddles in hand, was impatiently awaiting the Tigrero's arrival: for the combat seemed doubled in intensity, although, from the number of musket shots, it was easy to see that victory would rest with the French.
"What shall we do?" Cucharés inquired.
"Get into the middle of the river, and slip down with the current."
"But our horses?"
"Let us save ourselves first; we will think of the horses afterwards. It is evident that the white men are the victors. As soon as the fight is over, Count de Lhorailles will send everywhere in search of his guests. It is important not to leave any trail, for the French are demons, and would find us again."
"Still, I fancy—" Cucharés timidly observed.
"Be off!" said the Tigrero in a peremptory tone, kicking the canoe vigorously from the bank.
The first moments of the voyage passed in silence: each reflected on the peculiar position in which he was placed.
Don Martial had assumed a tremendous responsibility by staking, as it were, on one throw the happiness of the girl he loved and his own. Besides, the hacendero lying at the bottom of the canoe gave him great subject for thought. The position was grave, the solution difficult.