The words are repeated, and the sign given in a more emphatic manner.
The old men crowd along the edge of the parapet. There is one among them who differs from the rest. His snow-white hair reaches below his waist. There are bright ornaments hanging from, his ears and over his breast. He is attired in white robes. He appears to be a chief; for the rest obey him. He makes a signal with his hands, and the screaming subsides. He stands forward on the parapet, as if to speak to us.
“Amigos, amigos!” (friends!) cries he, speaking in Spanish.
“Yes, yes; we are friends,” replies Seguin, in the same language. “Do not fear us! We came not to harm you.”
“Why harm us? We are at peace with the white pueblos to the east. We are the children of Montezuma; we are Navajoes. What want you with us?”
“We come for our relatives, your white captives. They are our wives and daughters.”
“White captives! You mistake us. We have no captives. Those you seek are among the nations of the Apache, away far to the south.”
“No; they are with you,” replies Seguin. “I have certain information that they are here. Delay us not, then! We have come a far journey for them, and will not go without them.”
The old man turns to his companions. They converse in a low voice, and exchange signs. Again he faces round to Seguin.
“Believe me, señor chief,” says he, speaking with emphasis, “you have been wrongly informed. We have no white captives.”