The sergeant was an old African soldier, knowing his duties perfectly—a thorough trooper in the fullest sense of the word; but we must confess that he was nothing of an orator. At this direct challenge from his chief he smiled, blushed like a girl, let his head droop, opened an enormous mouth, and stopped short. The count, perceiving his embarrassment, kindly urged him to speak. At length, after many an effort, the sergeant managed to begin in a hoarse and perfectly indistinct voice.
"Hang it, captain!" he said, "I can understand that the situation is not at all pleasant; but what is to be done? A man is a trooper, or he is not. Hence my opinion is that you ought to act as you think proper; and we are here to obey you in every respect, as is our peremptory duty, without any subsequent or offensive after-thought."
The officers could not refrain from laughing at the worthy sergeant's profession of faith, as he stopped all ashamed.
"It is your turn, capataz," the captain said. "Give us your opinion."
Blas Vasquez fixed his burning eyes on the count.
"Do you really ask it frankly?" he said.
"Certainly I do."
"Then listen," he said in a firm voice, and with an accent bearing conviction. "My opinion is that we are betrayed; that it is impossible for us to leave this desert, where we shall all perish in pursuing invisible enemies, who have caused us to fall into a trap which will hold us all."
These words produced a great impression on the hearers, who understood their perfect truth. The captain shook his head thoughtfully.
"Don Blas," he said, "you bring, then, a heavy accusation against someone. Have you conscientiously weighed the purport of your words?"