"That if we do not start at once we are lost!"
"How—what do you mean?"
"To horse! To horse! Every moment we waste here brings us nearer to death. Presently I will explain all."
"In Heaven's name tell me what the matter is!"
"You shall know. Come, come."
Without listening to anything, he compelled the hacendero to mount: Doña Anita had done so already. The Tigrero looked around for the last time, and gave the signal for departure. The party started at their horses' topmost speed.
[CHAPTER XXIII.]
THE APACHES.
Nothing is so mournful as a night march through the desert, especially under such circumstances as hurried our party on. Night is the mother of phantoms; in the darkness, the gayest landscapes become sinister—everything assumes a form to startle the traveller. The moon, however brilliant the light it diffuses may be, imparts to objects a fantastic appearance and mournful hues which cause the bravest to tremble.