At the words “false alarm,” a smile played over Cuchillo’s features.
“However,” added Don Estevan, “let every one saddle his horse and be prepared.” Then he returned to his tent, making a sign to Diaz to accompany him.
“That means, friend Baraja,” said Benito, “that if the orders are given to light the fires, we are sure to be attacked—at night too; it is terrible.”
“Who knows that better than I?” said Baraja, “have you ever been present at such a thing?”
“Never; that is why I dread it so much.”
“Well, if you had, you would dread it more.”
Cuchillo, as he drew near the tent, arranged his countenance and threw back his long hair—as though the wind had blown it about in his rapid flight—and then entered the tent like a man out of breath and pretending to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. Oroche had glided in with Diaz.
Cuchillo’s story was brief: in reconnoitring the places towards which the expedition should advance, he had gone further than was prudent.
Diaz interrupted him.
“I had taken such precautions to deceive the Indians by false tracks,” said he, “I had so misled them, that you must have quitted the line of march and gone from right to left.”