Soothed by this more honourable reflection, I at length fell asleep, just as the grey light of dawn was beginning to steal over the spray of the chapparal.
I could not have been very long unconscious, for the beams of the sun had scarcely attained their full brilliancy, when I was again awakened—this time, not by the conflict of passion within, but by the voices of men without. The challenge of a sentry had first struck upon my ear,—quickly followed by a parley with some one who had approached the tent.
In the scarcely intelligible dialogue that ensued, I could tell that the man challenged was a Mexican, who, in broken English, was endeavouring to satisfy the demands of the sentry.
The dialogue ran thus:—
“Who goes there?”
“Amigos! friends!” was the response.
“’Dvance, and gie the countersign!”
“Señor centinela! we are medicos—surgeon, you call—of the ejercito—armee Mejicano.”
“Ye’re Mexicans, are ye? Take care what ye’re about then. What d’ye want hyar?”
“We are medicos—doctor—entiende usted?”