When Father Seraphin fell off his horse he almost immediately lost his senses. He remained for a long time lying in the ditch, but by degrees the night cold had brought him round again. At the first moment the poor priest, whose ideas were still confused, had cast anxious glances around him, while asking himself how he came there. He tried to rise; but then a poignant pain he felt in his shoulder reminded him of what had occurred. Still he did not despair. Alone, by night in the desert, exposed to a thousand unknown dangers, of which the least was being devoured by wild beasts, without weapons to defend himself, too weak, indeed, to attempt it, even if he had them, he resolved not to remain in this terrible position, but make the greatest efforts to rise, and drag himself as well as he could to the Paso, which was three leagues distant at the most, where he was sure of finding that care his condition demanded.
Father Seraphin, like the majority of the missionaries who generously devote themselves to the welfare of humanity, was a man who, under a Weak and almost feminine appearance, concealed an indomitable energy, and a resolution that would withstand all trials. So soon as he had formed his plan he began carrying it out. With extreme difficulty and atrocious pain he succeeded in fastening his handkerchief round his shoulder, so as to check the hemorrhage. It took more than an hour before he could stand on his legs: often he felt himself fainting, a cold perspiration beaded at the root of his hair, he had a buzzing in his ears, and everything seemed to be turning round him; but he wrestled with the pain, clasped his hands with an effort, raised his tear laden eyes to heaven, and murmured from the bottom of his heart,—
"O God! Deign to support thy servant, for he has set on thee all his hopes and confidence."
Prayer, when made with faith, produces in a man an effect whose consequences are immediate; it consoles him, gives him courage, and almost restores him the strength that has deserted him. This was what happened to Father Seraphin. After uttering these few words he set out boldly, supporting his tottering footsteps with a stick, which a providential chance had placed in his way. He walked thus for nearly half a league stopping at every instant to draw breath; but human endurance has limits beyond which it cannot go. In spite of the efforts he made, the missionary at length felt his legs give way under, him; he understood that he could not go further; and he sank at the foot of a tree, certain that he had attempted impossibilities, and henceforth resigning to Providence the care of saving him.
It was at this moment Curumilla arrived near him. The Indian aided him to rise, and then warned his comrades of the success of his search. Father Seraphin, though the chief offered to carry him, refused, and wished to walk to join his friends; but his strength deserted him a second time, he lost his senses, and fell into the arms of the Indian, who watched him attentively; for he noticed his increasing weakness, and foresaw his fall. Valentine and Curumilla hastily constructed a litter of tree branches, on which they laid the poor wounded man, and raising him on their shoulders, went off rapidly. The night passed away, and the sun was already high on the horizon, and yet the hunters—were marching. At length, at about eleven o'clock, they reached the cavern which served Valentine as a shelter, and to which he had resolved to carry his patient, that he might himself nurse him.
Father Seraphin was in a raging fever; his face was red, his eyes flashing. As nearly always happens with gunshot wounds, a suppurating fever had declared itself. The missionary was laid on a bed of furs, and Valentine immediately prepared to probe the wound. By a singular chance the ball had lodged in the shoulder without fracturing the blade bone. Valentine drew it; and then helped by Curumilla, who had quietly pounded oregano leaves, he formed a cataplasm, which he laid on the wound, after first carefully washing it. Scarcely had this been done ere the missionary fell into a deep sleep, which lasted till nightfall.
Valentine's treatment had effected wonders. The fever had disappeared, the priest's features were calmed, the flush that purpled his cheeks had given place to a pallor caused by the loss of blood; in short, he was as well as could be expected. On opening his eyes he perceived the three hunters watching him anxiously. He smiled, and said in a weak voice,—
"Thanks, my brothers, thanks for the help you have afforded me. Heaven will reward you. I feel much better."
"The Lord be praised!" Valentine answered. "You will escape, my father, more cheaply than I had dared to hope."
"Can it be possible?"