In the
east, the deep blue of the firmament, from which the lesser stars were
fast fading, all but the "Eye of Mom," was warming into magnificent
purple, and the amber rays of the yet unrisen sun were shooting up,
streamer--like, with intervals between, through the parting clouds, as
they broke away with a passing shower, that fell like a veil of silver
gauze between us and the first primrose--coloured streaks of a tropical
dawn.
"That's a musket shot," said the Lieutenant. The Indian crept on his
belly to the door, dropped his chin on the ground, and placed his open
palms behind his ears. The distant wail of a bugle was heard, then three
or four dropping shots again, in rapid succession. Mr Splinter stooped
to go forth, but the Indian caught him by the leg, uttering the single
word "Espanoles."
On the instant, a young Indian woman, with a shrieking infant in her
arms, rushed to the door. There was a blue gunshot wound in her neck,
from which two or three large black clotting gouts of blood were
trickling. Her long black hair was streaming in coarse braids, and her
features were pinched and sharpened, as if in the agony of death. She
glanced wildly behind, and gasped out "Escapa, Oreeque, escape, para mi,
soi muerto ya." Another shot, and the miserable creature convulsively
clasped her child, whose small shrill cry I often fancy I hear to this
hour blending with its mother's death--shriek, and, falling backwards,
rolled over the brow of the hill out of sight.
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