“I doubt it,” replied Benito; “I wished to teach him a verse of the hymn for the dying. I can no longer remember it now. Do you not know something?”
“Not a word.”
“Ah! I must do without it,” said Benito, whose accustomed stoicism did not forsake him even at that moment. Then, in a still more feeble voice, he added, “I have bequeathed to Baraja an old companion—an old friend; whoever you may be, recommend him to observe my last request, to love him as I did.”
“A brother doubtless.”
“Better than that; my horse.”
“I shall remind him—do not fear.”
“Thank you,” said the old man. “As for myself, I have finished my travels. The Indians did not kill me when they took me prisoner in my youth—now they have killed me in my old age without taking me prisoner. That—” he stopped, and then added some words in so low a tone that they did not reach the ear of the listener. He spoke no more; those were his last words, for death had abruptly ended his speech.
“He was a brave man—peace be with him!” said the speaker, who then continued his search, until at last, fatigued by its uselessness, he returned with an anxious look to his place, and after he had gone the silence of death seemed to pervade the camp.
Before long, however, a confused noise of voices and horses’ feet indicated the return of the adventurers who had started in pursuit of the Indians, and by the doubtful light of the half extinct fires, they entered the camp.
The same man who had been recently inspecting the dead, went out to meet them. While some of them were dismounting to open a passage through the barricades, Pedro Diaz advanced towards him, a stream of blood flowing from a wound in his forehead.