Chapter Thirty Six.
The Alarm.
That evening, as usual, Don Estevan watched in his tent, while his people reposed. By the light of a smoky candle, the Spaniard, in spite of the modest appearance of his lodgings and of his dust-covered clothes, seemed to have lost nothing of the dignity of his appearance or of his grand air. His complexion, more sunburnt than usual, gave his countenance a still more energetic character. He appeared pensive, but his thoughts were no longer so uneasy as they had been; on the eve, after so many dangers, of realising his vast designs, Don Estevan had, for the time at least, shaken off gloomy thoughts, and fixed his mind on the hope of a success which he believed infallible.
He had raised the canvas, which served as a door, in order to glance upon the men who reposed around, and seemed to wish to compare his means of action with the aim he was pursuing.
“Nearly twenty years ago,” thought he, “I commanded a party of sailors, nearly equal in number, and as determined as these. I was then only an obscure younger son, and they aided me to recover my inheritance—yes, it was mine. But I was then in the flower of my age, and had an aim in the future to pursue. I have attained this aim—I have even surpassed it; and now that I have nothing more to desire, I find myself, in my mature age, scouring the desert as I formerly scoured the sea. Why?”
The conscience of Mediana cried to him, that it was in order to forget one day of his life, but at that moment he wished to remain deaf to its voice. The moon shone upon the firearms piled in the centre of the camp, and cast its light upon sixty men inured to peril and fatigue, and who laughed at heat and thirst. In the distance a luminous vapour rested upon the mountains beyond which lay the Golden Valley.
“Why?” repeated Don Estevan; “because there remains to me still an immense treasure and a vast kingdom to conquer.”
The eyes of Mediana sparkled with pride; then this expression passed away, and he fixed on the horizon a melancholy look.