“To the saddle-flaps.”
“Ride this way, Captain. It’s deeper here.”
“How can I? My mule is her own master, as far as I am concerned.”
“Parbleu!” said the Frenchman. “I did not think of that.”
But, whether to oblige me, or moved by a desire to cool her flanks, the animal plunged forward into a deeper part of the stream.
After straining myself to the utmost, I was enabled to “duck” my head. In this painful position I contrived to get a couple of swallows; but I should think I took in quite as much at my nose and ears.
Clayley and Chane followed our example, the Irishman swearing loudly that it was a “burnin’ shame to make a dacent Christyin dhrink like a horse in winkers.”
Our guards now commenced driving our mules out of the water. As we were climbing the bank, someone touched me lightly upon the arm; and at the same instant a voice whispered in my ear, “Courage, Captain!”
I started—it was the voice of a female. I was about to reply, when a soft, small hand was thrust under the tapojo, and pushed something between my lips. The hand was immediately withdrawn, and I heard the voice urging a horse onward.
The clatter of hoofs, as of a horse passing me in a gallop, convinced me that this mysterious agent was gone, and I remained silent.