“What does it mean?”
“They are waiting for the sun to appear. These people worship him.”
The hunters, interested and curious, strain their eyes, watching the ceremony.
The topmost pinnacle of the quartz mountain is on fire. It is the first flash of the sun!
The peak is yellowing downward. Other points catch the brilliant beams. They have struck the faces of the devotees. See! there are white faces! One—two—many white faces, both of women and girls.
“Oh, God! grant that it may be!” cries Seguin, hurriedly putting up the glass, and raising the bugle to his lips.
A few wild notes peal over the valley. The horsemen hear the signal. They debouche from the woods and the defiles of the mountains. They gallop over the plain, deploying as they go.
In a few minutes we have formed the arc of a circle, concave to the town. Our horses’ heads are turned inwards, and we ride forward, closing upon the walls.
We have left the atajo in the defile; the captive chief, too, guarded by a few of the men. The notes of the bugle have summoned the attention of the inhabitants. They stand for a while in amazement, and without motion. They behold the deploying of the line. They see the horsemen ride inward.
Could it be a mock surprise of some friendly tribe? No. That strange voice, the bugle, is new to Indian ears; yet some of them have heard it before. They know it to be the war-trumpet of the pale-faces!