“Caballeros! I can think of only one way—poor, doubtful chance it is—by which we may get rescued. Some one must contrive to pass their sentries.”
“Impossible!” is the thought of all hearing him, one or two expressing it in speech. For of all the things observed as vigorously kept up, never relaxed for an hour—even a moment—has been that sentinel line thrown across the plain from flank to flank of the ravine. All day long it has appeared there, and all through the night evidently redoubled.
“Pity if it be,” rejoins Don Estevan, yielding to what appears the general sentiment. “And to think that one word at Arispe would make all well. My own brother-in-law, Colonel Requeñes, in command there with a regiment of lancers—they of Zacatecas. In less than half an hour they could be in the saddle, and hastening to our relief. Ay Dios! if we can’t communicate with them we are lost—surely lost!”
At this, Robert Tresillian says, interrogatively:
“I wonder how many of our people could find the way back to Arispe?”
Without altogether comprehending what he means, several numbers are mentioned in a guessing way, according to the estimate of each. Pedro Vicente thinks at least thirty could,—certainly all the arrieros and vaqueros.
“What is your idea, Don Roberto?” at length asks the senior partner.
“That all of those who know the way back be mustered, and two taken from them by lot, who will run the risk of passing the Indian sentries. If they succeed, then all may be saved; if on the contrary, it will be but to lose their lives a little sooner. I propose that all submit to the lottery—all who are unmarried.”
“I agree with the Señor Tresillian,” here puts in the gambusino. “Some of us must contrive to get past them at whatever risk. For my part, I’m willing to be one, with any other.”
The generous proposal is received with applause, but not accepted,—it would not be fair; and in fine it is agreed upon, that fate shall determine who shall be the pair to run the proposed risk—the ceremony for deciding it to take place on the morrow.