“The sand whirls down there, but it is only the wind that is stirring it. They are alone, and now they stop and look about them.”
So saying, Bois-Rose rose slowly, like the eagle who agitates before completely unfolding his wings—those powerful wings the rapid flight of which will soon bring him down to the plain.
“Señor Don Estevan,” said Pedro Diaz, “I think we should return to the camp.”
Don Antonio hesitated a moment. The counsel was good, but it was too late to follow it.
From the top of the rock the three hunters watched their every movement.
“It is time,” said Bois-Rose.
“I must take Don Antonio alive,” said Fabian. “Arrange that, and I care for nothing else.”
Bois-Rose now rose to his fall height, and uttered a cry which struck on the ears of the new-comers. They uttered an exclamation of surprise, which surprise was still further increased at sight of the gigantic Canadian upon the rock.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” cried a voice, which Fabian recognised as that of Don Antonio.
“I shall tell you,” replied the hunter; “it will recall to you a truth—never contested either in my country or in the desert—that the ground belongs to the first occupants; we were here before you, and are the sole masters of this place. We therefore wish one of you to retire with a good grace, and the other to surrender himself, that we may teach him a second law of the desert, ‘blood for blood.’”