"Xocoyotl (My child)!"
The cry of the soul—this first and supreme appeal of a mother on the verge of the tomb—affected the two men with their hearts of bronze. Valentine cautiously lifted the child, which had gone to sleep peacefully on the leaves, and presented it to the mother, saying in a soft voice:
"Nantli joltinemi (Mother, he lives)!"
At these words, which restored her hope, the woman leaped up as if moved by a spring, seized the child, and covered it with kisses, as she burst into tears. The hunters respected this outpouring of maternal love: they withdrew, leaving food and water by the woman's side. At sunset the two men returned. The woman was squatting by the fire, nursing her child, and lulling it to sleep by singing an Indian song. The night passed tranquilly, the two hunters watching in turn over the slumbers of the woman they had saved, and who reposed in peace.
At sunrise she awoke; and, with the skill and handiness peculiar to the women of her race, she rekindled the fire and prepared breakfast. The two men looked at her with a smile, then threw their rifles over their shoulders, and set out in search of game. When they returned to the bivouac the meal was ready. After eating, Valentine lit his Indian pipe, seated himself at the foot of a tree, and addressed the young woman.
"What is my sister's name?" he asked.
"Tonameyotl (the Sunbeam)," she replied, with a joyous smile that revealed the double row of pearls that adorned her mouth.
"My sister has a pretty name," Valentine answered. "She doubtless belongs to the great nation of the Apaches."
"The Apaches are dogs," she said in a hollow voice, and with a flash of hatred in her glance. "The Comanche women will weave them petticoats. The Apaches are cowardly as the coyotes: they only fight a hundred against one. The Comanche warriors are like the tempest."
"Is my sister the wife of a cacique?"