Hitherto I had felt no apprehension, not believing that any small party would carry their foraging to so distant a point as the house of our friends. I knew that any detachment, commanded by an officer, would act in a proper manner; and, indeed, any respectable body of American soldiers, without an officer. But in all armies, in war-time, there are robbers, who have thrown themselves into the ranks for no other purpose than to take advantage of the licence of a stolen foray.
We were within less than a league of Don Cosmé’s rancho, and still the evidence of ruin and plunder continued—the evidence, too, of a retaliatory vengeance; for on entering a glade, the mutilated body of a soldier lay across the path. He was upon his back, with open eyes glaring upon the moon. His tongue and heart were cut out, and his left arm had been struck off at the elbow-joint. Not ten steps beyond this we passed another one, similarly disfigured. We were now on the neutral ground.
As we entered the forest my forebodings became painfully oppressive. I imparted them to Clayley. My friend had been occupied with similar thoughts.
“It is just possible,” said he, “that nobody has found the way. By heavens!” he added, with an earnestness unusual in his manner, “I have been far more uneasy about the other side—those half-brigands and that villain Dubrosc.”
“On! on!” I ejaculated, digging the spurs into the flanks of my horse, who sprang forward at a gallop.
I could say no more. Clayley had given utterance to my very thoughts, and a painful feeling shot through my heart.
My companions dashed after me, and we pressed through the trees at a reckless pace.
We entered an opening. Raoul, who was then riding in the advance, suddenly checked his horse, waving on us to halt. We did so.
“What is it, Raoul?” I asked in a whisper.
“Something entered the thicket, Captain.”