"You do not fear?"
"I fear nothing--we are together," and, as he spoke, I felt the long, slim, gloved hand touch mine.
A moment later we had left the shadow of the wood; we stood above the sloping bank of the river rushing by; another moment and our horses' feet would be upon the wooden bridge--its creaking quite apparent to our ears as the stream swept under it.
"'Tis God's mercy," I whispered again to him, "that the river is so brawling; otherwise the horses' hoofs upon these boards would be heard as plain as a musket's roar. Ha! I had forgotten!"
"Forgotten what, Mervan?" the gentle voice of Juan whispered back. "Forgotten what?"
"If they should neigh! If there should be any of their kind up there!" and as I spoke, as the thought came to me, I felt as though I myself feared.
"Pray God they do not; yet, if they do, it must be borne." And now I noticed his voice was as firm as though he had experienced a hundred such risks as this we were running. Then he added: "The Indians muffle theirs with their serapes when they draw near a foe. Shall we do that?"
"No," I answered, "'tis too late. Let's on. Yet, remember, at the slowest pace. Thus their hoofs will fall lighter." And again I exclaimed: "Thank God, the river drowns their clatter!"
Yet, a moment later, and I had cause for further rejoicing. From above where that light twinkled there came a sound of singing--a rich, full voice a-trolling of a song, with another voice joining in.
Or was there more than one voice joining in? If so, we might have more than the old man and the young one, of whom the landlord had spoken, to encounter. Almost directly Juan confirmed my dread.