Curumilla had already taken up the trail, and had disappeared in the gloom. The Araucano had never been a great speaker naturally: with age he had grown almost dumb, and never uttered a word save when absolutely necessary. But if the Indian did not talk, he acted; and in critical situations his determination was often worth long harangues. Don Pablo, obedient to Valentine's orders, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and prepared to execute them.
"Where are you going?" the hunter asked him, as he seized his arm.
"To look for Father Seraphin."
"Wait."
The two men stood motionless, listening to the mysterious sounds of the desert, that nameless melody which plunges the soul into a soft reverie. Nearly an hour passed thus, nothing revealing to the hunters that Curumilla's search had proved successful. Valentine, growing impatient at this long delay, was also preparing to go on, at once the weak, snapping cry of the walkon rose in the air.
"What's that?" Don Pablo asked in surprise.
"Silence!" Valentine muttered.
A second time the walkon sang, but this time stronger, and much nearer. Valentine raised his fingers to his lips, and imitated the sharp, shrill yell of the ocelot twice, with such perfection that Don Pablo started involuntarily, and looked round for the wild beast, whose eyes he fancied he could see flashing behind a thicket. Almost immediately the note of the walkon was heard a third time. Valentine rested the butt of his rifle on the ground.
"Good!" he said. "Do not be alarmed, Don Pablo. Curumilla has found Father Seraphin."
The young man looked at him in amazement. The hunter smiled.