“Three days and three nights were consumed in fearful anguish, relieved only by a feeble ray of hope. At length on the morning of the fourth day, we were able unawares to fall upon our sanguinary foes; and after a desperate struggle, the warlike giant succeeded in reconquering the youth, who, safe and sound, he again pressed to his heart, calling him his beloved child.”
“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed the haciendado, with a sigh of relief.
Rosarita remained silent, but her colour suddenly returning, testified to the pleasure she experienced: while a joyous smile lit up her countenance on hearing the last words of the narrator.
“Continue!” said the haciendado; “but, in your recital, which is deeply interesting to a man who was himself during six months held captive by the Indians, I seek in vain for any details relative to poor Don Estevan’s death.”
“I am ignorant of them,” continued Gayferos, “and I can only repeat the words spoken by the youngest of the three hunters, when I questioned him upon the subject.”
“He is dead,” said the young man to me, “you yourself are the last survivor of a numerous expedition; when you shall have returned to your own country—for,” added he, with a sigh, “you have perhaps some one, who in grief numbers the days of your absence—they will question you concerning the fate of your chief, and the men he commanded. You will reply to them, that the men died fighting—as to their chief, that he was condemned by the justice of God, and that the divine sentence pronounced against him, was executed in the desert. Don Estevan Arechiza will never again return to his friends.”
“Poor Don Estevan!” exclaimed the haciendado.
“And you could never learn the names of these brave, generous, and devoted men?” asked Doña Rosarita.
“Not at the moment,” continued Gayferos; “only it appeared strange to me, that the youngest of the three hunters spoke to me of Don Estevan, Diaz, Oroche, and Baraja, as though he knew them perfectly.”
A pang shot through Doña Rosarita’s heart, her bosom heaved, her cheeks were dyed with a deep crimson, then became pale again as the flowers of the datura, but she still remained silent.