Suddenly the sound ceased; and the voice once more echoed in my ear—
“Carrambo!” exclaimed the man now known to me as Ramon Rayas, “I was going away without having accomplished the best half of my errand! Didn’t I come to make certain that your wound was mortal? Let’s see if that picaro Vilagos has been telling me the truth. Through what part of the body are you perforated?”
There was no reply; but from certain indications I could tell that the salteador had approached the prostrate man, and was stooping down to examine his wounds.
I made a movement forward in the direction in which I had heard the strange dialogue; but checked myself on again hearing the voice of Rayas.
“Carajo!” ejaculated he, in a tone that betokened some discovery, at the same time one causing disappointment. “That wound of yours is not mortal—not a bit of it! You may recover from it, if—”
“You think I have a chance to recover?” eagerly interrogated the wounded man—willing to clutch at hope, even when offered by an enemy.
“Think you have a chance to recover? I’m sure of it. The bullet has passed through your thigh—what of that? It’s only a flesh wound. The great artery is not touched. That I’m sure about, or you’d have bled to death long ago. The bone is not broken: else you could no more lift your foot in that fashion, than you could kick yonder cofre from the top of Peroté. Carrambo! you’d be sure to get over it, if—”
There was an interval of silence, as though the speaker hesitated to pronounce the condition implied by that “if.” The peculiar emphasis, placed on the monosyllabic word, told me that he was making pause for a purpose.
“If what, Capitan Rayas?”
The interrogatory came from the wounded man, in a tone trembling between hope and doubt.