“Come!” cried the Frenchman, who had now resuscitated Clayley and Chane; “we have not a moment to lose. The mustangs will get over their fright, and these fellows will be down upon us.”
His advice was instantly followed, and before the guerilleros could manage their scared horses we had entered the thicket, and were crawling along under the wet leaves.
Chapter Forty Six.
A Bridge of Monkeys.
Raoul thought that their superstition might prevent the enemy from pursuing us farther. They would consider the lightning as an interference from above—a stroke of the hrazos de Dios. But we had little confidence in this, and, notwithstanding our exhaustion, toiled on through the chaparral. Wearied with over-exertion, half-famished—for we had only commenced eating when roused from our repast in the morning—wet to the skin, cut by the bushes, and bitten by the poisoned teeth of the bloodhounds—blinded, and bruised, and bleeding, we were in but poor travelling condition.
Even Lincoln, whose buoyancy had hitherto borne up, appeared cowed and broken. For the first mile or two he seemed vexed at something and “out of sorts”, stopping every now and again, and examining his rifle in a kind of bewilderment.
Feeling that he was once more “in the timber”, he began to come to himself.
“Thet sort o’ an enemy’s new ter me,” he said, speaking to Raoul. “Dog-gone the thing! it makes the airth look yeller!”