And Uncle Manuel’s eyes anxiously questioned Pedrillo, who had been on his knees examining the blood-stain.
“Why! I can tell you where Rafael is,” cried Pilarica. “He’s in there.”
And the small brown finger pointed to a tatter of red, that waved, on the end of what seemed to be an alder reed, from a rock near by. “That’s Rafael’s magic cap,—all that’s left of it. He always carries it in his blouse. He has tied it to his popgun. He’s hiding in the rock.”
It did not take the muleteers a moment to tear away the stones that closed the entrance, but when Uncle Manuel stooped into the cleft and lifted out the inert little body, a dreadful silence fell upon the group,—a silence soon broken by Pilarica’s cheerful pipe:
“Rafael! Wake up! It isn’t bed-time yet.”
At that sweet, familiar voice the lids fluttered, and the black eyes, bewildered, brave, looked up into Uncle Manuel’s face.
The Pilgrim of the Thorn, as Pilarica called him, instantly had his water-gourd at the white lips, and Rafael revived so rapidly that he was soon sitting upon his uncle’s knee. He even glanced at his watch, with his usual air of careless magnificence in performing this action, and was amazed to find that only one hour had passed since they left the rivulet. Every man of them wanted to carry him down to the road. The boy hesitated to make a choice, but when the vigorous old peasant-woman, who had puffed up the mountainside after the rest, put in her claim, he decided at once.
XIX
THE END OF THE ROAD
THERE was still a big lump under Rafael’s hat when, a few afternoons later, our travellers, after a brief siesta, started out on the last stage of their long journey. The muleteers were in the wildest spirits, tossing coplas from one to another and often roaring out in chorus: