Obedient to her brother’s request, the young girl changes tune and song, now pouring forth one of those inimitable lays for which the language of Cervantes is celebrated.
Despite all, the heaviness of heart remains, pressing upon those who listen as on her who sings. Adela’s voice appears to have lost its accustomed sweetness, while the strings of her guitar seem equally out of tune.
All at once, while in the middle of her song, the two bloodhounds, that have been lying on the floor at her feet, start from their recumbent position, simultaneously giving utterance to a growl, and together rush out through the open door.
The singing is instantly brought to an end; while Don Valerian and the doctor rise hastily from their chairs.
The bark of watch-dog outside some quiet farmhouse, amidst the homes of civilisation, can give no idea of the startling effect which the same sound calls forth on the far Indian frontier—nothing like the alarm felt by the dwellers in that lone ranche. To add to it, they hear a hoof striking on the stones outside—that of either horse or mule. It cannot be Lolita’s; the mustang mare is securely stalled, and the hoof-stroke comes not from the stable. There are no other animals. Their late guests have taken away the two saddle mules, while the mulas de carga are with the messenger, Manuel.
“It’s he come back!” exclaims the doctor. “We ought to be rejoiced instead of scared. Come, Don Valerian! we shall have our smoke yet before going to bed.”
“It’s not Manuel,” answers Miranda. “The dogs would have known him before this. Hear how they keep on baying! Ha! what’s that? Chico’s voice! Somebody has caught hold of him!”
A cry from the peon outside, succeeded by expostulations, as if he was struggling to escape—his voice commingled with shrill screams from Conchita—are sounds almost simultaneous.
Don Valerian strides back into the room and lays hold of his sword, the doctor clutching at the first weapon that presents itself.
But weapons are of no avail where there are not enough hands to wield them.