Grasping each other by the hand, with terrified looks they rushed from the spot and disappeared.
Several men ran up, ending the snake with their sabres. One of them stooped, and examining the carcase of the dead reptile, exclaimed:
“Carai! there is a hole in his head—he has been shot!”
A moment after, half a dozen of the guerilleros burst open the door and rushed in, crying out as they entered:
“Quien tira?” (Who fired?)
“What do you mean?” angrily asked Raoul, who had been in ill-humour ever since the guerillero had refused him a draught of water.
“I ask you who fired the shot?” repeated the man.
“Fired the shot!” echoed Raoul, knowing nothing of what had occurred outside. “We look like firing a shot, don’t we? If I possessed that power, my gay friend, the first use I should make of it would be to send a bullet through that clumsy skull of yours.”
“Santissima!” ejaculated the Mexican, with a look of astonishment. “It could not be these—they are all tied!”
And the Mexicans passed out again, leaving us to our reflections.