“But had we better not make some effort in favour of the unlucky man?” said Fabian.
“Some unexpected circumstances may come to our assistance,” replied Bois-Rose. “Whatever Pepé says, the Indians may still doubt, but if we show ourselves, all is over. To accept an alliance with these Indians, even against Don Estevan de Arechiza, would be an unworthy cowardice. What can we do?” added he, sadly.
One fear tormented him; he had seen Fabian in danger when his blood was boiling with passion, but had he the calm courage which meets death coolly? Had he the stoical resignation of which he himself had given so many proofs? The Canadian took a sudden resolution.
“Listen, Fabian,” said he; “can I speak to you the language of a man? Will the words which your ears will transmit to your heart not freeze it with terror?”
“Why doubt my courage?” replied Fabian in a tone of gentle reproach. “Whatever you say, I will hear without growing pale; whatever you do, I will do also, without trembling.”
“Don Fabian speaks truly, Pepé; look at his eye,” said the Canadian, pressing Fabian in his arms; then he continued solemnly: “Never were three men in greater peril than we are now; our enemies are seven times our number; when each of us has killed six of them, there would still remain a number equal to our own.”
“We have done it before,” said Pepé.
“And we shall do it again,” cried Fabian.
“Good, my child,” said Bois-Rose, “but whatever happens, these demons must not take us alive. See, Fabian!” added the old man, in a voice that he tried to keep firm while unsheathing a long knife, “if we were left without powder or ammunition at the mercy of these dogs, about to fall into their hands, and this poignard in my hand was our only chance, what would you say?”
“I would say, strike, father, and let us die together!”