“‘Oh, Heavens!’ I cried; ‘you are wounded.’
“‘It is nothing,’ he said; ‘I will now wake our companions.’
“What do you think, Señorita?” continued the narrator. “Was not my dream a warning from God? A party of Indians, whom we had put to flight on the other side of the mountains—had followed our track in order to revenge the blood of their companions, which had been spilt upon the banks of the Gila—at the place where we had rescued the young man.
“But the Indians had to contend with terrible adversaries. Their sentinel was the phantom who had been killed by the courageous hunter before he had time to utter a cry of alarm, and the rest, surprised in their sleep, were nearly all stabbed; a few sought safety in flight.
“The night had not passed before this new exploit was accomplished.
“The tall hunter hastened to dress the wound of the young man, whom he loved as a son; and the latter, overcome with fatigue, stretched himself upon the ground and slept.
“In the mean time his two friends watched by his side to guide his sleep, whilst I in sadness contemplated his altered countenance, his reduced figure, and the bloodstained bandage with which his head was bound.”
“Poor youth,” interrupted Doña Rosarita, gently, “still so young, and yet compelled to lead a life of incessant danger. And his father, also, he must have trembled for the life of a beloved son?”
“Beloved, as you say, Señorita,” continued the narrator.
“During a period of six months I was a daily witness to the infinite tenderness of this father for his child.