Most likely the unknown had already divined who these persons might be, even before he saw them; for he quitted his temporary shelter, passed his arm through his horse's reins, and, uncocking his rifle, let the butt drop on the ground, with every symptom of complete security, while a smile of indefinable expression played about his lips.
At last the branches parted, and five persons appeared on the scene.
Of these five persons, four were men; two of them supported the tottering form of a woman, whom they almost carried in their arms. And, what was most wonderful in these regions, the strangers, whom it was easy to recognise as white men by their dress and the colour of their skin, had no horses with them.
They continued to advance without being aware of the presence of the unknown, who, still motionless, marked their approach with mingled pity and sadness.
Suddenly one of the strangers happened to lift his eyes.
"Praise be to God!" cried he, in Mexican, with lively satisfaction; "We are saved. Here is a human being at last."
The five stopped. The one who had first observed the unknown came rapidly towards him, and exclaimed, with a graceful inclination:
"Caballero, I entreat you to grant, what is seldom refused in the wilderness, aid and protection."
The unknown, before he replied, threw a searching look at the speaker.
The latter was a man of some fifty years; his manner was polished, his features noble, although his hair was growing white about his temples; his figure, upright and compact, had no more bent an inch, nor his black eyes lost a particle of their fire, than if he had been only thirty. His rich dress and the ease of his manner clearly proved him to belong to the highest grade of Mexican society.
"You have committed two grave errors in as many minutes, caballero," answered the unknown: "the first, in approaching me without precaution; the second, in demanding aid and protection without knowing who I am."
"I do not understand you, señor," replied the stranger, with astonishment. "Do not all men owe mutual assistance to each other?"
"In the civilised world it may be so," said the unknown, with a sneer; "but in the wilderness, the sight of a man always forebodes danger: we are savages here."
The stranger recoiled in astonishment.
"And thus," said be, "you would leave your fellow creatures to perish in these horrible solitudes without stretching forth a hand to help them?"
"My fellow creatures!" cried the unknown, with biting irony; "My fellow creatures are the wild beasts of the prairie. What have I in common with you men of towns and cities, natural enemies of every being that breathes the pure air of liberty? There is nothing in common between you and me. Begone, and weary me no more."
"Be it so," was the stranger's haughty answer. "I would not importune you much longer; were it only a question of myself, I would not have uttered a single prayer to you. Life is not so dear to me, that I should seek to prolong it on terms repugnant to my honour; but it is not a question of myself alone; here is a female, still almost a child, my daughter who is in want of prompt assistance, and will die if it is not rendered."
The unknown made no reply; he had turned away, as if reluctant to carry on any further conversation.
The stranger slowly rejoined his companions, who had halted at the edge of the forest.
"Well?" he asked uneasily.
"The señorita has fainted," sorrowfully replied one of the men.
The stranger uttered an exclamation of grief. He remained for some moments fixing his eyes on the girl, with an indescribable expression of despair.
All of a sudden he turned abruptly, and rushed towards the unknown.
The latter had mounted, and was on the point of retiring.
"Stop!" called the stranger.
"What is it you want with me?" replied the unknown once more. Then he added fiercely, "Let me begone; and thank God that our unforeseen meeting in this forest has not been productive of graver consequences to you."
The menace contained in these enigmatical words disturbed the stranger in spite of himself. However, he would not be discouraged.
"It is impossible," he resumed vehemently, "that you can be as cruel as you wish us to believe. You are too young for all feeling to have died out of your heart."
The unknown laughed strangely.
"I have no heart," he said.
"I implore you, in the name of your mother, not to abandon us!"
"I have no mother."
"Then I beseech you in the name of the being you love most upon earth, whoever that may be."
"I love no one."
"No one?" repeated the stranger, shuddering; "Then I pity you, for you must be most unhappy."
The unknown trembled; a feverish glow stole over his face; but soon recovering himself, he exclaimed:
"Now let me go."
"No; not before I learn who you are."
"Who I am! Have I not already told you? A wild beast; a being with only the semblance of humanity, with a hatred towards all men which nothing can ever appease. Pray to God you may never again encounter me on your path. I am like the raven – the sight of me foretells evil. Adieu!"
"Adieu!" murmured the stranger; "And may God have mercy on you, and not visit your cruelty upon you!"
Just at this moment a voice, feeble, but in its sad modulations sweet and melodious as the notes of the centzontle, the American nightingale, rose through the stillness.
"My father, my dear father!" it uttered. "Where are you? Do not abandon me."
"I am here, I am here," exclaimed the stranger tenderly, as he turned quickly to run to her who thus called him.
A cloud passed over the face of the unknown at the sound of these melodious accents; his blue eye flashed like the lightning. He placed his hand on his heart, trembling as if he had received an electric shock.
After a short hesitation, he forced his horse to make a sudden bound forward, and placing his hand on the stranger's shoulder:
"Whose voice is that?" he asked in singular accents.
"The voice of my daughter, who is dying, and calls me."
"Dying?" stammered the unknown, strangely moved. "She!"
"My father, my father!" repeated the girl in a voice which grew weaker and weaker.
The unknown raised himself to his full height; his face assumed an expression of indomitable energy.
"She shall not die!" said he in a low voice. "Come!"
They rejoined the group.
The young girl was stretched upon the ground, with her eyes closed, her face pale as a corpse; the feeble gasps of her breathing alone evincing that life had not completely left her.
The persons surrounding her watched her in profound sadness, while tears rolled silently down their bronzed cheeks.
"Oh!" cried the father, falling on his knees beside the young girl, seizing her hand and covering it with kisses, while his face was inundated with tears; "My fortune – my life – to him who will save my cherished child!"
The unknown had dismounted, and observed the girl with sombre and pensive eye. At last, after several minutes of this mute contemplation, he turned towards the stranger.
"What ails this girl?" he asked abruptly.
"Alas! An incurable ailment: she has been bitten by a grass snake."
The unknown frowned till his eyebrows nearly met together.
"Then she is lost indeed," said his deep voice.
"Lost! O Heavens! My daughter, my dearest daughter!"
"Yes;