"Nothing is easier; they are men like myself, hunters and adventurers belonging to my cuadrilla, accustomed to a desert life and Indian tricks. Soldiers would do us more harm than good. In this expedition, courage takes the second place; skill and craftiness alone can ensure our success. Good-bye, good-bye, all is arranged; I shall be back soon." "Go, my friend, and luck be with you," the general said, affectionately. "All that it is possible to attempt, General, I will do. Good-bye." The hunter went out. "That is all the assistance I can offer you, Don Aníbal; I wish that I could do more. Place the most perfect confidence in this adventurer; he is a man of heart, thoroughly devoted and intelligent." "I have been able to appreciate him under critical circumstances," the count said, "and I have the best opinion of him." "Heaven grant that his help may prove effectual," Don Aníbal murmured, with a sigh. "Hope, my friend, hope. God will not abandon you." Don Aníbal only answered with a sigh more profound than the first, and, after taking leave of the general, he and the count proceeded to the spot where the cuadrilla of the adventurers was encamped. "Poor man!" the general muttered, as he saw the hacendero retire. "Will he succeed in saving the two unhappy captives? Alas!" He shook his head doubtfully, and fell back into his meditations. "Are you ready to start?" Moonshine asked the two gentlemen on seeing them. "At once?" the count asked. "Well, that will be better for what we have to do." "Have we the time to go and fetch our horses?" "Your peon has brought them." Fifteen adventurers, already mounted, were waiting, motionless and silent. They were men with bold features and a resolute air, whose bronzed faces testified to the fatigue they had endured in their rough profession. A few minutes later the little band quitted the camp at a gallop, and went out into the plain under the guidance of Moonshine. It was a cold night, as most American nights are. The men wrapped themselves carefully in their cloaks, to escape being saturated by the chilling dew, which fell upon them in an abundance unknown in our climate; and they rode sharply till sunrise without exchanging a word. At about four in the morning they halted to give their horses a rest. "Are we going to stop?" Don Aníbal asked. These were the first words he had spoken since they started. "Only for two hours," the hunter said. "Very well." And he fell back into his silence, from which the count did not deem it necessary to draw him. As Moonshine had said, within two hours the horses were resaddled, and they set out again, after eating a biscuit and a strip of tasajo, and drinking a draught of spirits. The count could only succeed in making his friend swallow a few mouthfuls, by representing to him that he must keep up his strength. His grief was intensely gloomy. This time they rode a long distance, and only halted at one o'clock p.m. in a clearing.