When the day breaks, with eyes anxiously scrutinising, they look down into the valley. A mist hangs over the stream, caused by the spray of its cataracts.
Lifting at length, there is displayed a scene not very different from what they have been expecting.
Around the ranche they see horses picketed and soldiers moving among them or standing in groups apart; in short, a picture of military life in “country quarters.”
Their point of view is too far off to identify individual forms or note the exact action carried on. This last, left to conjecture, is filled up by fancies of the most painful kind.
For long hours are they constrained to endure them—up to that of noon. Then, the notes of a bugle, rising clear above the hissing of the cascades, foretell a change in the spectacle. It is the call, “Boots and saddles!” The soldiers are seen caparisoning their horses and standing by the stirrup.
Another blast gives the order to “Mount!” Soon after, the “Forward!” Then the troop files off from the front of the jacal, disappearing under the trees like a gigantic glittering serpent. The white drapery of a woman’s dress is seen fluttering at its head, as if the reptile had seized upon some tender prey—a dove from the cote—and was bearing it off to its slimy lair.
For another half-hour the two men on the mound wait with nervous impatience. It requires this time to make the ascent from the centre of the valley to the upper plain. After entering among the trees, the soldiers and their captives are out of sight; but the clattering of their horses’ hoofs can be heard as they strike upon the rock-strewn path. Once or twice a trumpet sound proclaims their movements upon the march.
At length the head of the troop appears, the leading files following one after the other along the narrow ledge. As they approach the summit of the pass the track widens, admitting a formation “by twos.” At the trumpet call they change to this, a single horseman riding at their head.
He is now near enough for his features to be distinguished, and Hamersley’s heart strikes fiercely against his ribs as he recognises them. If he had any doubt before, it is set at rest now. He sees Gil Uraga, certain of his being the man who caused the destruction of his caravan. His own horse, ridden by the robber, is proof conclusive of the crime.
He takes note that the lancer colonel is dressed in splendid style, very different from the dust-stained cavalier who the day before passed over the desert plain. Now he appears in a gorgeous laced uniform, with lancer cap and plume, gold cords and aiguillettes dangling adown his breast; for he has this morning made his toilet with care, in consideration of the company in which he intends travelling.