n a word to Don Vegal
respecting the mule, for fear of saddening him still more with the
thought that his daughter must now be dragged through these difficult
passes.

When he returned to the Spaniard, he found him asleep--fatigue had
prevailed over grief and resolution; Martin Paz was careful not to
awaken him; a little sleep might do him much good; but, while he himself
watched, resting the head of Don Vegal on his knees and piercing with
his quick glances the surrounding shadows, he sent Liberta to seek below
on the river some trace which might guide them at the first rays of the
sun.

The Indian departed in the direction indicated, gliding like a serpent
between the high brush with which the shores were bristling, and the
sound of his footsteps was soon lost in the distance.

Thenceforth Martin Paz remained alone amid these gloomy solitudes: the
Spaniard was sleeping peacefully; the names of his daughter and the
Indian sometimes mingled in his dreams, and alone disturbed the silence
of these obscure forests.

The young Indian was not mistaken; the Sambo had descended the Madeira
three miles, then had landed with the young girl and his numerous
companions, among whom might be numbered Manangani, still covered with
hideous wounds.

The company of Sambo had increased during the journey. The Indians of
the plains and the mountains had awaited with impatience the triumph of
the revolt; on learning the failure of their brethren, they fell a prey
to a gloomy despair; hearing that they had been betrayed by Martin Paz,
they uttered yells of rage; when they saw that they had a victim to be
sacrificed to their anger, they burst forth in cries of joy and followed
the company of the old Indian.

They marched thus to the approaching sacrifice, devouring the young girl
with sanguinary glances--it was the betrothed, the beloved of Martin Paz
whom they were about to put to death; abuse was heaped upon her, and
more than once the Sambo, who wished his revenge to be public, with
difficulty wrested Sarah from their fury.

The young girl, pale, languishing, was without thought and almost
without life amid this frightful horde; she had no longer the sentiment
of motion, of will, of existence--she advanced, because bloody hands
urged her onward; they might have abandoned her in the midst of these
great solitudes--she could not have taken a step to have escaped death.
Sometimes the remembrance of her father and of the young Indian