“I draw towards the close of my recital,” continued Gayferos. “After having recovered the brave warrior’s son from the Apaches, we journeyed towards the plains of Texas. I shall not relate to you all the dangers we encountered during six months of our wandering life, as hunters of the otter and the beaver, nevertheless, it had its charms; but there was one amongst us, who was far from finding this life agreeable. This was our young companion.
“When I saw him for the first time I was struck by the melancholy expression of his countenance, but afterwards, as we journeyed together, I noticed that this melancholy, instead of decreasing, seemed daily to augment. The old hunter, whom I believed to be his father (I know now that he is not), took every opportunity of calling his attention to the magnificence of the vast forest in which we lived, the imposing scenes of the desert, or the charm of the perils we encountered. They were vain efforts, for nothing could banish the grief that consumed him. He seemed only to forget it in the midst of the dangers he eagerly sought. One might have supposed that life to him was no more than a heavy burden which he desired to get rid of.
“Full of compassion for him, I often said to the old hunter—‘Solitude is only suited to an advanced age, youth delights in activity, and in the presence of its equals. Let us return to our habitations.’ But the giant only sighed without replying.
“Soon afterwards the manner of the two hunters, who loved their young companion as a son, became also saddened.
“One night while the young man and I were watching, I recalled a name which six months before he had uttered in his sleep. I then learned the secret of that grief which was slowly consuming him. He loved, and solitude had but increased a passion which he vainly sought to stifle.”
Gayferos paused an instant to cast a searching glance upon the countenances of his auditors, especially upon that of Doña Rosarita. He appeared to take a secret pleasure in exciting the young girl by the recital of all the circumstances best calculated to touch the heart of a woman.
As a warrior and a hunter, the haciendado did not attempt to conceal the interest with which the stranger’s narrative was inspiring him.
Rosarita, on the contrary, endeavoured, under a mask of studied coldness, to conceal the charm she experienced on listening to this romance of heart and action, whose most stirring pages were so considerately opened to her by the intelligent narrator.
But her heightened colour and the fire in her large dark eyes completely belied her efforts.
“Ah!” cried Don Augustin, “if these three brave men had been under Don Estevan’s command, the fate of the expedition might have been far different.”