“Reckoning the giant who carried me in his arms there were but three,” continued the narrator.
“Santa Virgen! they were trusty men then—but continue.”
The adventurer resumed:
“The companion of him who had carried me in his arms was a man of about the same age—that is, near five-and-forty. There was, besides, a young man, of a pale but proud countenance, a sparkling eye, and a sweet smile; by my faith, a handsome young man, Señorita; such a one as a father might with pride own as a son—such as a lady might be proud and happy to see at her feet. During a short interval of calm, which succeeded the horrible agonies I had suffered, I found time to question the preservers of my life concerning their names and occupation; but I could learn nothing from them except that they were hunters, and travelled for their own pleasure. That was not very probable, still I made no observation.”
Doña Rosarita could not quite suppress a sigh: perhaps she expected to be reminded of a familiar name.
Gayferos continued the recital of various facts with which the reader is already acquainted.
“Alas, Señorita,” he continued, “the poor young man was himself captured by the Indians, and his punishment was to avenge the death of their companions.”
At this part of the narrative, Doña Rosarita’s cheek became deadly pale.
“Well, and the young man,” interrupted the haciendado, who was almost as much moved as the daughter, on hearing these sad events, “what became of him?”
Rosarita, who had remained silent as the narrator proceeded, returned by a look of tender acknowledgment, the solicitude her father testified for the young man, for whom in spite of herself, she felt so deep an interest.