in the shadows of the sand heaps.

Pedro Diaz consulted an instant with Don Estevan, and then cried
loudly--

"Light the fires everywhere! we must count our enemies."

A few minutes after, a red light, almost as bright as the sun, lit up
the whole camp, and showed the adventurers at their post, rifles in
hand; while the horses stood saddled and bridled, only waiting for their
riders in case of a sortie being necessary. At the same time Don
Estevan's tent was struck, and a calm succeeded to the tumult.

The desert was silent also; the moon no longer shone on the Indians, who
had all disappeared like a bad dream chased away by the return of
morning. It was a dead silence--the precursor of the storm--and there
seemed in this silence something fearful. It did not announce one of
those surprises in which an enemy inferior in number disguises his
weakness under the impetuosity of his attack, and ready to run if he is
resisted: it was the respite before the combat, granted by pitiless
enemies, preparing for a deadly struggle.

"Yes, trust to me," said old Benito to Baraja, "in a quarter of an hour
you will hear the howlings of these red devils sound in your ears like
the trumpets of the last judgment!"

"Carramba! you are the most skilled man about tigers and Indians that I
ever met with, but you might be more consoling. I wish to God I could
doubt the truth of your words!"

"There are some things always easy to foresee," continued the old man.
"One may predict to the traveller who goes to sleep in a bed of a
torrent that he will be carried away by the waters; and that Indians who
have discovered their enemies will draw off a little, and count their
men before making an attack. One may also predict that several of them
will utter their death-cry, as many among us will have to say their last
prayer; but who those will be no one can say. Do you know any prayers
for the dying, Senor Baraja?"

"No," replied the latter, dolefully.

"I am sorry for that; those are little services that friends may render
each other, and if I had the grief, as is very possible, of seeing you
first scalped then murdered--"

Further conversation was interrupted by outcries which seemed drawing
near to the camp. In spite of the terrifying words of the old shepherd,
his _sang froid_ in the greatest perils and his resolution full of
consoling fatalism, sustained the more wavering courage of Baraja.

As he shuddered at the horrible soun