“Come back, Fabian! come back! What is the use of—”
A third detonation seemed to cut short the speech of the ex-coast-guard—as if he had fallen by the bullet—while no voice of Fabian was heard to make reply. A profound and frightful silence followed the last shot, which was broken only by the voice of the mock-bird, who appeared imperfectly to imitate the words that had been spoken, and then commenced chanting a plaintive song—as if mourning the death of those who had fallen by the shots.
The Canadian ran on for some moments, until—unable longer to restrain himself—he paused, and cried out, at the risk of exposing himself to some ambushed enemy:
“Hola! Pepé!—where are you?”
“Here!” answered the voice of the ex-carabinier. “We are here, straight before you—Don Fabian and myself. Come on!”
A cry of joy was all the response the Canadian could give; and the next moment another joyous shout, as he came upon the ground and perceived that both his companions were still in safety.
“The skunk ought to be wounded,” said he; “my shot caused him to tumble out of his saddle. You were perhaps more fortunate than I? I heard your piece speak—have you throwed him, Pepé?”
Pepé shook his head in the negative.
“If you mean the fellow in the yellow jacket,” said he, “I fancy the devil has him under his protection; for I had a fair sight on him—and yet he’s off! He’s not alone, however; there are four other horsemen along with him; and in one of these gentleman I have recognised him whom they here call Don Estevan de Arechiza, but who is no other than—”
“I have seen only the fellow in the leather jacket,” interrupted the Canadian; “and here is his gun, Fabian, for you. But are you quite safe?” continued he, in an anxious tone. “You are sure you are not wounded?”