It was near daybreak when we halted to rest, and then only after the prairie had been fired behind us.
We found shelter in a pretty grove of acacias, and a grassy turf on which to repose. My wearied followers soon fell asleep.
I slept not; I watched over the slumbers of my betrothed. Her beautiful head rested upon my knees; her soft damask cheek was pillowed upon the robe of jaguar-skins, and my eyes were upon it. The thick tresses had fallen aside, and I saw—
The matador, too, had been merciful! or had gold bribed him from his cruel intent? No matter which—he had failed in his fiendish duty.
There in full entirety were those delicate organs—perfect, complete. I saw but the trifling scar where the gold circlet had been rudely plucked—the source of that red haemorrhage that had been noticed by Cyprio!
I was too happy to sleep.
It was our last night upon the prairies. Before the setting of another sun we had crossed the Rio Grande, and arrived in the camp of our army. Under the broad protecting wings of the American eagle, my betrothed could repose in safety, until that blissful hour when—
Of the Comanches we never heard more. The story of one only was afterwards told—a fearful tale. Ill-fated Wakono! A horrid end was his.
An oft-told tale by the prairie camp-fire is that of the skeleton of an Indian warrior found clasping the trunk of a tree! Wakono had horribly perished.