“I know Yañez, whom we saw at the rancho. He is one of Cenobio’s officers, and the leader of this party, which is only a detachment. I am rather surprised that he has brought us away, considering that Dubrosc is with him; there must have been some influence in our favour which I cannot understand.”
I was struck by the remark, and began to reflect upon it in silence. The voice of the Frenchman again fell upon my ear.
“I cannot be mistaken. No—this hill—it runs down to the San Juan River.”
Again, after a short interval, as we felt ourselves fording a stream, Raoul said:
“Yes, the San Juan—I know the stony bottom—just the depth, too, at this season.”
Our mules plunged through the swift current, flinging the spray over our heads. We could feel the water up to the saddle-flaps, cold as ice; and yet we were journeying in the hot tropic. But we were fording a stream fed by the snows of Orizava.
“Now I am certain of the road,” continued Raoul, after we had crossed. “I know this bank well. The mule slides. Look out, Captain.”
“For what?” I asked, with some anxiety.
The Frenchman laughed as he replied:
“I believe I am taking leave of my senses. I called to you to look out, as if you had the power to help yourself in case the accident should occur.”