hile the Indians were deliberating. The last exploit of Diaz, the
death that so many of their party had met with in the camp, and those
killed by the filing, had thinned their ranks.

The Indian never persists in a hopeless struggle: a singular mixture of
prudence and contempt of life characterises this singular race, and
prudence counselled them to retreat; they did so precipitately as they
had attacked.

But the tactics of the white men were different; they were anxious to
profit by a victory the fame of which would penetrate to the furthest
end of the desert, and render their future more secure. Therefore an
order to pursue the fugitives given by Don Estevan was received with
acclamations. Twenty cavaliers instantly rushed forward, Pedro Diaz
among the foremost. Sword in one hand, and lasso and bridle in the
other, he was soon out of sight.

Those who remained behind, though nearly all more or less wounded,
occupied themselves first with reconstructing the intrenchment in case
of any new attack; then, overwhelmed with fatigue, hunger, and thirst,
after clearing the camp of the dead bodies which encumbered it, they lay
down on the earth, still wet with blood, to seek for repose.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

AFTER THE FIGHT.

In the calm which succeeded to the noise of the combat, a single man
rose slowly up, and by the light of a torch which he held, examined all
the corpses lying at his feet, as if seeking to identify the livid or
bloody faces of the dead. Sometimes the light fell on the strange paint
of an Indian face, and the pale one of a white man, lying side by side
in an eternal sleep; occasionally a deep groan proceeded from some one
who was wounded, but the seeker did not appear to find what he sought.

All at once, amidst the silence, a weak voice attracted his attention,
and he tried in the half-light to discover whence the sound proceeded.
The feeble movement of a hand guided him, and he approached the dying
man--in whom he immediately recognised Benito.

"Ah! it is you, my poor Benito?" said he, with a look of profound pity.

"Yes," replied the old shepherd, "it is old Benito, dying in the desert
where he has nearly always lived. As for me--I know not who you are; my
eyes are dim. Is Baraja living?"

"I trust so; he is now pursuing the Indians, and will return in time, I
hope, to bid you a last adieu."

"I doubt it," replied Benito; "I wished to teach him a verse of the hymn
for the dyi