There was a lengthened silence. Ellen attentively followed the bandit's movements, whom the fever plunged into a species of somnolency, and who at times started with inarticulate cries, and looking around him in terror. Toward evening, he opened his eyes, and seemed to grow stronger: his eyes were less haggard, his words more connected.
"Thanks, child," he said, "you are a good creature; where are we?"
"I do not know, father; this forest is immense. I tell you, again, it was God who guided me to you."
"No, you are mistaken, Ellen," he replied with that sarcastic smile peculiar to him; "it was not God who brought you here, but the demon, who feared the loss of so good a friend as I am."
"Speak not so, father," the girl said sadly; "the night is rapidly setting in darkness will soon surround us; let me on the contrary, pray to Heaven to keep far from us the perils that threaten us during the night."
"Child! Does a night in the woods frighten you so, when your whole life has been spent in the desert? Light a fire of dry wood to keep the wild beasts at bay, and place my pistols near me, these precautions will be better, believe me, than your useless prayers."
"Do not blaspheme," the girl said hurriedly; "you are wounded, almost dying; I am weak, and incapable of helping you effectually. Our life is in the hands of Him whose power you deny in vain. He alone, if He will, can save us."
The bandit burst into a dry and snapping laugh.
"Let Him do so then, in the demon's name, and I will believe in Him."
"Father, in Heaven's name, speak not so," the maiden murmured in sorrow.