olatory speech the old shepherd wrapped himself up in
his cloak and lay down to sleep.

Not so Baraja. The words of his comrade had produced their effect, and
he was unable to compose himself to rest. His imagination depicted to
him a thousand phantoms, and every moment he fancied he could hear the
yells of the savages, as they rushed forward to attack the camp. Not
that the ex-haciendado was altogether a coward; but there was reason for
his fears; and the darkness of the night, as well as the strange
behaviour of the animals, was sufficient cause to render even a brave
man apprehensive of danger.

After the long day's march, all the adventurers were asleep--stretched
here and there upon the ground. The sentinels alone were awake, and
watching--now and then raising along the lines their monotonous cry of
"_Sentinela alerte_!" It was the only sound that for a long time
interrupted the silence of the night.

After remaining awake for a considerable time, Baraja began to feel
confidence, and perhaps would have gone to sleep, like the others, when
all at once he heard several shots, similar to those that had been heard
during the day, and which appeared to proceed from the same direction.

"They are still firing over there," said he, nudging the old herdsman so
as to awake him.

"No matter," grumbled Benito; "let them fire away. If it be not
Cuchillo or Gayferos, we needn't care. So, friend Baraja, I wish you
good-night--go to sleep yourself. In the desert, time for sleep is
precious, although at any minute you may be sent to sleep in eternity--
Good-night!"

After this terrifying speech, the ex-herdsman drew his cloak over his
eyes to keep out the rays of the moon, when a noise made by the mules
caused him to raise his head again, "Ah!" said he, "the red devils are
not far off."

The neigh of a horse was now heard from a distance, accompanied by a cry
of alarm, and the next moment a man was seen riding up at full gallop.

"It is Cuchillo," cried the servant; then, in a low voice, to Baraja,
"Let the travellers take care when the will-o'-the-wisp dances on the
plain!"

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

THE ALARM.

That evening, as usual, Don Estevan watched in his tent, while his
people reposed. By the light of a smoky candle, the Spaniard, in spite
of the modest appearance of his lodgings and of his dust-covered
clothes, seemed to have lost nothing of the dignity of his appearance or
of his grand air. His c