A few minutes after, a red light, almost as bright as the sun, lit up the whole camp, and showed the adventurers at their post, rifles in hand; while the horses stood saddled and bridled, only waiting for their riders in case of a sortie being necessary. At the same time Don Estevan’s tent was struck, and a calm succeeded to the tumult.
The desert was silent also; the moon no longer shone on the Indians, who had all disappeared like a bad dream chased away by the return of morning. It was a dead silence—the precursor of the storm—and there seemed in this silence something fearful. It did not announce one of those surprises in which an enemy inferior in number disguises his weakness under the impetuosity of his attack, and ready to run if he is resisted: it was the respite before the combat, granted by pitiless enemies, preparing for a deadly struggle.
“Yes, trust to me,” said old Benito to Baraja, “in a quarter of an hour you will hear the howlings of these red devils sound in your ears like the trumpets of the last judgment!”
“Carramba! you are the most skilled man about tigers and Indians that I ever met with, but you might be more consoling. I wish to God I could doubt the truth of your words!”
“There are some things always easy to foresee,” continued the old man. “One may predict to the traveller who goes to sleep in a bed of a torrent that he will be carried away by the waters; and that Indians who have discovered their enemies will draw off a little, and count their men before making an attack. One may also predict that several of them will utter their death-cry, as many among us will have to say their last prayer; but who those will be no one can say. Do you know any prayers for the dying, Señor Baraja?”
“No,” replied the latter, dolefully.
“I am sorry for that; those are little services that friends may render each other, and if I had the grief, as is very possible, of seeing you first scalped then murdered—”
Further conversation was interrupted by outcries which seemed drawing near to the camp. In spite of the terrifying words of the old shepherd, his sang froid in the greatest perils and his resolution full of consoling fatalism, sustained the more wavering courage of Baraja.
As he shuddered at the horrible sounds—which must be heard to be appreciated—he cast upon Benito a glance in order to catch from him a little of his philosophy. For the first time a cloud of sadness appeared on the ex-herdsman’s brow, and his eyes looked as though tears stood in them. Baraja was struck by the change, and laid his head upon the old man’s arm. Benito raised his head.
“I understand you,” said he, “but man has his moments of weakness. I am like him who is called from his hearth by the sound of the trumpet at a time he least thought to quit it. Amidst those howls I hear from above the sound of the last trumpet calling me, and although I am old, it grieves me to go. I leave neither wife nor children to regret, nor those who would weep for me; but there is an old companion of my solitary life from whom I cannot separate without grief. It is at least a consolation for the Indian warrior to know that his war-horse will share his tomb, and to believe that he shall find him again in the land of spirits. How many times have we scoured the woods and the plains together. How often have we borne together heat, hunger, and thirst! This old and faithful friend is my horse, as you may have guessed. I give him to you, friend Baraja. Treat him kindly—love him as I love him, and he will love you as he loves me. His companion was killed by a tiger, and he will now be left alone.”