For a month past, he had discovered, by an inexplicable chance, Red Cedar's retreat, which Valentine, the skilful trail-hunter, had been unable to detect. Don Pablo had immediately profited by his good fortune to see again the girl he had believed lost for ever. This unexpected success appeared to him a good omen; and every morning, without saying anything to his friends, he mounted his horse upon the first excuse that offered, and rode thirty miles to speak with her he loved for a few moments.
Every consideration was silent in presence of his love: he allowed his friends to exhaust themselves in vain researches, preciously keeping his secret in order to be happy, at least, for a few days; for he perfectly foresaw that the moment must arrive when Red Cedar would be discovered. But, in the meanwhile, he enjoyed the present. With all those who love in this way, the future is nothing, the present is all in all.
Don Pablo galloped on by the glare of the flashes, feeling neither the rain that inundated him, nor the wind that howled round his head. Absorbed in his love, he thought of the conversation he had held with Ellen, and pleased himself with recalling all the words that had been exchanged during the hour, which slipped away almost too rapidly.
All at once, his horse, to which he paid no attention, neighed, and Don Pablo raised his head intuitively. Ten paces ahead of him, a horseman was standing motionless across his path.
"Ah, ah!" said Don Pablo, as he drew himself up on the saddle, and cocked his pistols; "You are very late on the road, comrade. Let me pass, if you please."
"I am no later than yourself, Don Pablo," was the immediate response, "since I meet you."
"Halloh!" the young man shouted, as he uncocked his pistols, and returned them to his holsters; "What the deuce are you doing here, Don Valentine?"
"As you see, I am waiting."
"Whom can you be waiting for at this advanced hour?"
"For yourself, Don Pablo."