"Heaven be praised!" the hunter said. "Here you are at last. I was beginning to grow alarmed at your long absence."
"You see that nothing has happened to me," the young man answered, affectionately pressing the hunter's hands.
Don Pablo had dismounted, and hobbled his own horse and Curumilla's near Valentine, while the Indian chief busied himself in preparing the supper.
"Come, come," the hunter said gaily, "to table. You must be hungry, and I am dying of inanition. You can tell me all that has occurred while we are eating."
The three men went to the table; that is, they seated themselves on the grass in front of the fire, and vigorously assailed their meagre repast. Desert life has this peculiarity—that in whatever position you may find yourself, as the struggles you go through are generally physical rather than moral, nature never resigns her claims: you feel the need of keeping up your strength, so as to be ready for all eventualities. There is no alarm great enough to prevent you from eating and drinking.
"Now," Valentine asked presently, "what have you done? I fancy you remained much longer than was necessary in that accursed town."
"We did, my friend. Certain reasons forced me to remain longer than I had at first intended."
"Proceed in regular order, if you have no objection. I fancy that is the only way of understanding each other."
"Act as you please, my friend."
"Very good: the chief and I will light our Indian pipes while you make your cigarette. We will sit with our backs to the fire, so as to watch the neighbourhood, and in that way can converse without apprehension. What do you say, Pablo?"