“The risk is not great, either,” continued the Frenchman, in a half-soliloquy. “Disguised as Mexicans, we might do it; you speak the language as well as I. If you wish it, Captain—.”
“I do.”
“I am ready, then.”
I knew the fellow well: one of those dare-devil spirits, ready for anything that promised adventure—a child of fortune—a stray waif tumbling about upon the waves of chance—gifted with head and heart of no common order—ignorant of books, yet educated in experience. There was a dash of the heroic in his character that had won my admiration, and I was fond of his company.
It was a desperate adventure—I knew that; but I felt stronger interest than common in the fate of this boy. My own future fate, too, was in a great degree connected with his safety. There was something in the very danger that lured me on to tempt it. I felt that it would be adding another chapter to a life which I have termed “adventurous.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.
A Foolhardy Adventure.
At night Raoul and I, disguised in the leathern dresses of two rancheros, stole round the lines, and reached Punta Hornos, a point beyond our own pickets. Here we “took the water”, wading waist-deep.