“It would have been kinder to let me die of the poison, for this torment of thirst is more than I can bear.”
“Can we try the cueva?” faltered Maya.
“It is impossible,” answered her father. “We should all be killed.”
“Yes, yes,” repeated the señor, “it is impossible. Better that one should die than four.”
“Father,” said Maya, “you must take the best mule and ride forward to the pool where we should camp to-morrow. The moon shines, and with good fortune you may be back in eight or nine hours.”
“It is useless,” murmured the señor, “I can never live so long without drink, my throat is hot like a coal.”
Zibalbay shrugged his shoulders, he also thought that it was useless, but his daughter turned upon him fiercely and said:
“Are you going, or shall I ride myself?”
Then he went, muttering in his beard, and in a few minutes we heard the footsteps of the mule as it shambled forward into the desert.
“Fear not,” I said to the señor, “it is the poison that has dried you up, but thirst will not kill you so soon, and presently you will feel it less. Oh! that we had medicine here to make you sleep!”