"I have a son who is a great white hunter; he must at this moment be in the prairie; perhaps, if my brother would consent to keep us a few days longer with him, it would be possible to meet with him; under his protection we should have nothing to fear."
At these imprudent words the Spaniard made a gesture of terror.
"Señorita!" he said sharply in his native language, "take care lest——"
"Silence!" the Indian interrupted in an angry tone; "why does my white brother speak before me in an unknown tongue? Does he fear I should understand his words?"
"Oh, chief!" said the Spaniard, in a tone of denial.
"Let my brother, then, allow my palefaced mother to speak; she is speaking to a chief."
The old man was silent, but a sad presentiment weighed upon his heart.
The Comanche chief knew perfectly well to whom he was speaking; he was playing with the two Spaniards, as a cat does with a mouse; but, allowing none of his impressions to appear, he turned towards the woman, and bowing with that instinctive courtesy which distinguishes the Indians, said in a mild voice, and with a sympathetic smile,—
"Oh! oh! the son of my mother is a great hunter, is he? So much the better."
The heart of the poor woman dilated with joy.