“Who goes there?” he hailed in a loud tone, as the dark shadow was seen entering the glade.
“One who seeks an asylum by your fire,” was the ready reply, delivered in rather a feeble voice.
“Shall we allow him to come on? or beg him to continue his journey?” muttered Pepé to the Canadian.
“God forbid we should deny him! Perhaps they have refused him a lodging up at the house; and that voice, which I think I have heard before, plainly denotes that he is fatigued—perhaps ill.”
“Come on, Señor!” called out Pepé, without hesitating farther; “you are welcome to our fire and our mess; come on!”
At this invitation the stranger advanced. It is needless to say that it was Tiburcio Arellanos, whose cheeks as he came within the light of the fire betrayed by their paleness the traces of some violent emotion, or else of some terrible malady. This pallor, however, was partly caused by the blood which he had lost in the conflict with Cuchillo.
As soon as the features of Tiburcio came fairly under the light, the trappers recognised him as the young man they had met at La Poza; but the ex-carabinier was struck with some idea which caused him to make an involuntary gesture. The Canadian, on the other hand, regarded the new-comer with that expression of condescending kindness which age often bestows upon youth.
“Have you parted with the gentlemen in whose company we saw you?” asked Pepé of Tiburcio.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you are not aware that there is a house close by. I do not know the owner, but I fancy he would not refuse you a night’s lodging, and he could entertain you better than we. Perhaps,” continued he, observing that Tiburcio made no reply, “you have been up to the house already?”