"What are its good properties?" I asked.
"Oh! it produces beautiful dreams, which seem to lift you to heaven."
The Indian again became pensive, sometimes casting a glance over the vast prospect, and sometimes pulling up pieces of the turf which grew at his feet.
"It only needs a palm-tree to make the landscape quite complete," said he, thoughtfully.
In a minute or so he advanced towards the bushes, and, kneeling down, plucked a tuft of yellow marigold, which are called in this country "the dead man's flower." Afterwards I heard him sobbing.
"Oh Chéma! what is the matter?" cried Lucien, running up to his friend.
The Indian raised himself and took the boy in his arms.
"Once I had a mother, brothers, and a country," he said, sadly; "and this flower reminds me that all those are now sleeping in the grave."
"Then you don't love me?" replied Lucien, embracing him.
The only answer l'Encuerado made was pressing the boy so tightly against his breast as to draw from him a slight cry.