“So, yegua!” she says, bringing the mare to a stand, and half-turning her. “I’ve been losing my time and you your labour. The abominable birds—it’s only one of themselves that has dropped dead, and they’re holding a velorio over it.”
She continues, again facing towards the dead vulture.
“Now, I wonder if they are only waking it, or if the wakers are cannibals, and intend making a repast on one of their own kind. That would be a curious fact for our natural historian, Don Prospero. Suppose we stay awhile and see?”
For a moment she seems undecided as to staying or going. Only for a moment, when an incident occurs that changes the current of her thoughts from scientific curiosity to something of fear.
The bloodhounds that have lagged behind in the scurry across the plain, now close up; and, instead of stopping by the side of Lolita, rush on towards the yucca. It is not the odour of the dead buzzard—strong as that may be—that attracts them; but the scent of what is more congenial to their sanguinary instincts.
On arriving at the tree they run round to its opposite side; and then spring growling back, as if something they have encountered there has suddenly brought them to bay.
“A wounded bear or wolf!” is the muttered reflection of their mistress.
It has scarce passed her lips, when she is made aware of her mistake. Above the continued baying of the dogs she can distinguish the tones of a human voice; and at the same instant, a man’s head and arm appear above the spikes of the plant—a hand clutching the hilt of a long-bladed knife!