So far everything seems favourable. No sound comes from the direction of the lonely dwelling, not even the bark of a watch dog. The only noises that interrupt the stillness of the night are the lugubrious cry of the coyoté and the wailing note of the whip-poor-will; these, at intervals blending with the sweeter strain of the tzenzontle—the Mexican nightingale—intermittently silenced as the marching troop passes near the spot where it is perched.
Once more, before coming in sight of the solitary jacal, Uraga commands a halt. This time to reconnoitre, not to rest or stay. The troopers sit in their saddles, with reins ready to be drawn; like a flock of vultures about to unfold their wings for the last swoop upon their victims—to clutch, tear, kill, do with them as they may wish!
Chapter Fifty Two.
A Bloodless Capture.
A house from which agreeable guests have just taken departure is rarely cheerful. The reverse, if these have been very agreeable—especially on the first evening after.
The rude sheiling which gives shelter to the refugees is no exception. Everyone under its roof is afflicted with low spirits, some of them sad—two particularly so.
Thus has it been since the early hour of daybreak, when the guests regretted spoke the parting speech.
In the ears of Adela Miranda, all day long, has been ringing that painful word, “Adios!” while thoughts about him who uttered it have been agitating her bosom.