Softly as he stepped, the quick ear of an old Indian woman detected his approach, and she raised her eyes to meet his eager and hungry gaze, as he looked longingly at the supper she was preparing over the fire just outside her little cane hut.
When he saw that he was discovered, he went up to her, holding out his hand, and saying:—
“Good mother, I am very hungry and weary, give me something to eat and let me rest here to-night, or I shall die. Oh, mother! mother!”
He was thinking of his own mother at home; but his words and tones sunk into the heart of the old Indian woman, and tears gathered in her dim eyes as she placed her hand softly on Francisco’s shoulders.
“You call me mother,” she said, in Spanish, sadly, “those who used to call me mother are all dead! My boy would have been like you. My brave boy! my timid girl, gone! all gone!”
She wept bitterly as she gave Francisco the choicest morsels, and a cool, delicious drink, that was a balm to his parched and aching throat.
When Francisco had eaten, he was overcome with fatigue and want of sleep, but when he would have thrown himself down upon a mat in the hut, and fallen asleep immediately, the old mother caught him by the arm, exclaiming:—
“You must not lie down there to sleep, you would never wake again; for when the chief, my husband, returns, he would kill you, for he hates the Spaniards. What can I do with you, my poor boy?”
“I can go no farther, mother, I shall die of fatigue if I try; think of the two days and nights I passed upon the desert, without food, drink or sleep.” And he threw himself in the corner, saying: “he must kill me if he will,” and in a moment was fast asleep.
The old woman bent over and kissed him, weeping.