"Oh, my mother, my good mother! How did she come hither? Oh, I must run to see her."
"Here she is," said Curumilla.
The Araucano, at the first word uttered by Unicorn, guessing the pleasure he should cause his friend, had gone, without saying a word, to seek Madame Guillois, whom anxiety kept awake, though she was far from suspecting that her son was near her.
"My child!" the worthy woman said, as she pressed him to her heart.
After the first emotion had passed over, Valentine took his mother's arm in his, and led her gently back to the calli.
"You are not wise, mother," he said, with an accent of reproach. "Why did you leave the village? The season is advanced, it is cold, and you do not know the deadly climate of the prairies; your health is far from strong, and I wish you to nurse yourself. I ask you to do so, not for yourself but for me. Alas! What would become of me, were I to lose you!"
"My dear child," the old lady replied, tenderly. "Oh! How happy I am to be thus loved. What I experience at present amply repays all the suffering your absence occasioned me. I implore you to let me act as I like; at my age, a woman should not calculate on a morrow. I will not separate far from you again; let me, at any rate, have the happiness of dying in your arms, if I am not permitted to live."
Valentine regarded his mother attentively. These ill-omened words struck him to the heart. He was frightened by the expression of her face, whose pallor and extreme tenuity had something fatal about it. Madame Guillois perceived her son's emotion, and smiled sadly.
"You see," she said, gently, "I shall not be a burden to you long; the Lord will soon recall me to him."
"Oh, speak not so, mother. Dismiss those gloomy thoughts. You have, I hope many a long day to pass by my side."