“The name Antonio Valdez,” continued Don Rafael, “now recalls to me some facts connected with that wretch. I remember something of a punishment inflicted upon him; and I have a dark presentiment— Oh, heavens! Señor Don Mariano, such happiness to be thus interrupted—”
And without finishing his speech, the young officer hastily pressed the hand of his host, and rushed for the postern that opened towards the hills.
In a few seconds after, he was seen climbing the ridge, followed by the domestics of Don Mariano, who carried a litera.
On reaching the wounded man, Don Rafael had no longer any doubts about his being old Rodriguez; though having seen the latter only in his childhood, he remembered little more than the name.
Rodriguez, enfeebled by the loss of blood, and by the efforts he had been making to get upon his feet, was fast losing consciousness.
“Hold!” said Don Rafael to the domestic. “It is useless placing him on the litera. He will not be able to endure the motion. His blood has nearly all run out by this terrible wound.”
As the officer spoke he pointed to a large red spot upon the vest of the wounded man, beneath which the bloody orifice of a wound showed where the bullet had entered.
The dragoon captain had fairly won his spurs in the sanguinary wars of the Indian frontier. He had witnessed death in all its forms, and his experience had taught him to adopt the readiest means in such a crisis.
He first stopped the bleeding with his handkerchief, and then, taking the scarf of China crape from his waist, he bound it tightly over the wound. For all this he had but little hopes of the man’s recovery. The bullet had entered between his shoulders, and passed clear through his body.
Don Rafael only anticipated that, the haemorrhage once stopped, the wounded man might return for a moment to consciousness, he was, no doubt, the bearer of some important message from his master, and it behoved Don Rafael to learn its purport.