“Saddle, niña lindissima!” exclaims Vicente, with a quizzical smile; “that’s nought to me. I’d be glad to sacrifice a hundred such—ay, a thousand, if I could afford it, for him you seem so interested in. His life’s too precious to be weighed in the scale against all the horsegear in the world.”
All signify approval of these generous sentiments, so pleasing to the youth’s father, who tacitly listens. And the brief dialogue over, they turn to discussing the chances of relief reaching them, now for the first time seeming favourable.
“If,” says Don Estevan, hopeful as any, “he meet no accident before arriving at Arispe, then we may count on receiving succour. There’s but one thing we have to fear—time! Nor need we fear that, if Colonel Requeñes be there with his regiment. By ill fortune he may not.”
“What reason have you for thinking he may not?” asks Robert Tresillian.
“I recall his telling me, just before we started, that there was a likelihood of his being ordered to Guaymas, to assist in suppressing a reported rising of the Yaquis Indians. If he has gone thither we’ll be no better off than before.”
“But the people of Arispe—surely they will not be indifferent to our situation?”
It is the Englishman who interrogates.
“Ah, true,” returns the Mexican, correcting himself, as a reassured expression comes over his countenance. “They will not. I did not think of that. I see it now.”
“’Tis not for us and ours alone we may expect them to bestir themselves; but for their own relatives and friends. Think, amigo mio! There isn’t one of our following but has left some one behind who should rush to the rescue soon as hearing how things stand.”
“You’re right, Don Roberto. Whether the soldiers be there or not. Arispe and its surroundings can surely furnish force enough to effect our deliverance. We must have patience—hope and pray for it.”