Doña Anita, with drooping head and absent glance, was dreamily letting her dainty hand glide through the water over the side of the canoe.
Cucharés, while paddling furiously, was thinking that the life he led was anything rather than agreeable, and that he was far happier at Guaymas, as he lay with his head in the shade, and his feet in the sun, in the church porch, enjoying his siesta, refreshed by the sea breeze, and lulled to sleep by the mysterious murmur of the surf on the shingle.
As for Don Sylva de Torrés, he was not reflecting. A prey to one of those dumb passions which, if they lasted any length of time, must end in insanity, he frantically bit the gag that shut his mouth, and writhed in his bonds, while unable to break them.
The various sounds of the contest gradually died out. For some time longer the travellers remained silent, absorbed not only in their thoughts, but affected by that gentle melancholy produced on all nervous natures by that solemn calmness and striking harmony of the wilderness, whose sublime and majestic grandeur no human pen is capable of describing.
The stars were beginning to pale in the sky: an opal line was vaguely drawn in the horizon: the clumsy alligators were quitting the mud and going in search of their morning meal; the owls, perched on the trees, were saluting the approaching sunrise; the coyotes glided in startled bands along the shore, uttering their hoarse barks; the wild beasts were retreating to their hidden dens, heavy with sleep and fatigue; day was on the point of breaking. Doña Anita leaned coquettishly on Don Martial's shoulder.
"Where are we going?" she asked him in a gentle resigned voice.
"We are flying," he laconically answered.
"We have been descending the river in this way for more than six hours, borne by the current and helped by your four vigorously-pulled paddles. Are we not out of reach of danger?"
"Yes, long ago. It is not any fear of the French which troubles me now—"
"What then?"