This sepulchral calmness of the desert—this solitude that surrounds you, torments you from every side, and peoples the scenery with spectres—this obscurity which enfolds you like a leaden shroud—all combine to trouble the brain, and arouse a species of febrile terror, which the vivifying sunbeams are alone powerful enough to dissipate.
In spite of themselves our friends suffered from this feeling. They galloped through the night, not able to explain to themselves their motive for doing so, not knowing whither they were going. With heavy heads and weighed down eyelids, they had only one thought—of sleep. Borne along by their horses at headlong speed; the trees and rocks danced around them. They therefore secured themselves in their saddles, closed their eyes, and yielded to the sleep which overwhelmed them, and which they no longer felt the strength to resist.
Sleep is perhaps the most tyrannical and imperious necessity of man: it makes him despise and forget all else. The man overpowered by sleep will give way to it, no matter where he is, or what danger menaces him. Hunger and thirst may be subdued for a while by strength of will and courage, but sleep cannot. It is impossible to contend against it. It strangles you in its iron claws, and in a few moments hurls you down panting and conquered.
With the exception of Don Martial, whose eye was sharp and mind clear, the other members of the party resembled somnambulists. Hanging to their horses as well as they could, with eyes shut and thoughts wandering, they hurried on unconsciously, a prey to that horrible nightmare which is neither sleeping nor waking, but only the torpor of the senses and the oblivion of the mind.
This lasted the whole night. They had travelled ten leagues, and were utterly exhausted. Still at sunrise, beneath the influence of the warm rays, they gradually shook off their heaviness, opened their eyes, looked curiously around them, and an infinity of questions rose from the heart to the lips, as generally happens in such a case.
The party had reached the banks of the Rio Gila, whose muddy waters form, on this side, the desert frontier. Don Martial, after carefully examining the spot where he was, stopped on the bank. The bags of sand were removed from the horses' feet, and they were supplied with food. As for the men, they must temporarily put up with a mouthful of refino to restore their strength.
The appearance of the country had changed. On the other bank of the river a thick, strong grass covered the ground, and immense virgin forests grew on the horizon.
"Ouf!" Don Sylva said, rolling on the ground with an expression of great satisfaction, "What a journey! I am worn out. If that were to last but one day, voto a brios! I could not stand it any longer. I am neither hungry nor thirsty. I will go to sleep."
While saying this the hacendero had arranged himself in the posture most agreeable for a nap.
"Not yet, Don Sylva," the Tigrero said sharply, and shaking him by the arm. "Do you want to leave your bones here?"