The Rebel Chief: A Tale of Guerilla Life. Gustave Aimard
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to retain the inert rigidity of a corpse; still a certain moistness existed at the extremities, a diagnostic which made Dominique suppose that life was not completely extinct in this poor body. After dressing the wound with care, he gently raised the man and leaned him against a tree: then he began rubbing his chest, temples and wrists with rum and water, only stopping from time to time to examine with an anxious eye his pale contracted face. Everything appeared to be useless: no contraction, no nervous quiver indicated the return of life. But there is nothing so persistent as the will of a man who desires to save his fellow man. Although he began seriously to doubt the success of his efforts, far from being discouraged, Dominique felt his ardor redoubled, and resolved not to give up his exertions, till he had attained the certainty that they were wasted. A striking picture was offered by the group formed on this deserted road upon this calm and luminous night, at the foot of the cross – the symbol of redemption – by these two men, one of whom impelled by the holy love of humanity lavished on the other the most paternal care.
Dominique ceased his frictions for a moment and smote his forehead, as if a sudden thought had risen to his brain.
"Where the deuce can my head be?" he muttered; and feeling in his alforjas, which seemed inexhaustible, so many things did they contain, he brought out a carefully stoppered gourd.
He opened the wounded man's clenched teeth with his knife blade, thrust the gourd between his lips, and poured into his mouth a portion of the contents, while examining his face anxiously. At the end of two or three minutes, the wounded man gave a slight shiver, and his eyelids moved, as if he were trying to open them.
"Ah!" said Dominique with joy, "This time I believe I shall win the day."
And, laying the gourd by his side, he recommenced his frictions with renewed ardour. A sigh faint as a breath issued from the wounded man's lips, his limbs began ere long to lose a little of their rigidity, life was returning by inches. The young man redoubled his efforts; by degrees the breathing, though faint and broken, became more distinct, the features relaxed and the cheek bones displayed two red spots, although the eyes remained closed, the lips moved as if the wounded man were trying to utter some words.
"Come," said Dominique with delight, "all is not over yet, but he will have had a very narrow squeak for it; bravo! I have not lost my time! But who on earth can have given him so tremendous a sword thrust? People do not fight duels in Mexico. On my soul! If I were not afraid of insulting him. I could almost swear I know the man who so nearly slit up this poor wretch; but patience, he must speak ere long, and then he will be very clever if I do not learn with whom he has had the row."
In the meanwhile life, after long hesitating to return to this body which it had almost abandoned, had commenced an earnest struggle with death, which it drove further and further away. The movements of the wounded man became more distinct and decidedly more intelligent. Twice already his eyes had opened, although they closed again immediately; but the improvement in him was sensible: he would soon recover his senses, it was now but a question of time. Dominique poured a little water into a cup, mixed with it a few drops of the liquid contained in the gourd, and put it to the patient's mouth: the latter opened his lips, drank and then gave a gasp of relief.
"How do you feel?" the young man asked him with interest.
At the sound of this unknown voice, a convulsive quiver agitated the whole of the wounded man's body; he made a gesture as if repulsing a terrifying image, and muttered in a low voice, "Kill me!"
"Certainly not!" Dominique exclaimed joyfully.
"I had too much trouble in recovering you for that."
The wounded man partly opened his eyes, glanced wildly around, and at length gazed at the young man with an expression of indescribable horror.
"The mask!" he exclaimed, "The mask! Oh! Back, back!"
"The brain has suffered a very severe shock," the young man muttered, "he is suffering from a feverish hallucination which, if it continued, might produce madness. Hum! The case is serious! What is to be done to remedy this?"
"Murderer!" the wounded man continued feebly; "Kill me."
"He insists on that as it seems; this man has fallen into some frightful snare, his troubled mind only recalls the last scene of murder, in which he acted so unfortunate a part. I must cut this short and restore him the calmness necessary for his cure, if not, he is lost."
"Do I not know perfectly well I am lost?" the wounded man who overheard the last word said; "Kill me, therefore, without making me suffer more."
"You hear me, señor," the young man answered "very good then, listen to me without interruption: I am not one of the men who brought you into your present state. I am a traveller, whom accident or rather Providence brought on this road, to come to your assistance and, as I hope, to save you: you understand me, do you not? Hence cease to invent chimeras; forget, if it be possible, for the present at any rate, what passed between you and your assassins. I have no other desire but that of being useful to you: without me you would be dead: do not render more difficult the hard task I have taken on myself: your recovery henceforth depends on yourself."
The wounded man made a sudden effort to rise, but his strength betrayed him, and he fell back with a sigh of discouragement; "I cannot," he murmured.
"I should think not, wounded as you are. It is a miracle that the frightful sword thrust you received did not kill you on the spot: hence, do not any longer oppose what humanity orders me to do for you."
"But if you are not the assassin, who are you?" the wounded man asked, apprehensively.
"Who am I? A poor vaquero, who found you expiring here, and was fortunate enough to restore you to life."
"And you swear to me that your intentions are good?"
"I swear it, on my honour."
"Thanks!" the wounded man murmured.
There was a rather long silence.
"Oh! I wish to live;" the wounded man resumed, with concentrated energy.
"I can understand the desire – it is quite natural on your part."
"Yes; I wish to live, for I must avenge myself!"
"That sentiment is just, for vengeance is permitted."
"You promise that you will save me – do you not?"
"At least I will do all in my power."
"Oh! I am rich: I will reward you."
The ranchero shook his head.
"Why speak of reward?" he said. "Do you believe that devotedness can be bought? Keep your gold, caballero – it would be useless to me, for I have no wants to satisfy."
"Still, it is my duty."
"Not a word more on this subject, I must request, señor. Any pressure on your part would be a mortal insult to me. I am doing my duty in saving your life, and have no claim to any recompense."
"Act as you please, then."
"Promise me first not to raise any objection to what I may consider it proper to do on behalf of your health."
"I promise it."
"Good! In this way we shall always understand one another. Day will soon appear, and so we must not remain here any longer."
"But when can I go? I feel so faint, that I cannot possibly make the slightest movement."
"That need not disturb you. I will put you on my horse; and by making it go at a foot pace, it will carry you, without any dangerous jolts, to a safe place."
"I leave myself in your hands."
"That is the best thing you could do. Do you wish me to take you to your house?"
"My house!" the wounded man exclaimed, with ill-disguised terror, and making a movement as if he would try to fly. "You know me then, señor – know my residence?"
"I do not know you, and am ignorant where your house is situated. How could I know such details, when I never saw you before this night?"
"That is true," the wounded man muttered, speaking to himself.