Moonlight lay like a silver mist over the stubborn paths
the party was following. Moving objects could be observed at
a great distance, where the character of the surface permitted,
and now and then moving bodies of men were discernible on the
slopes of faraway peaks. Don Miguel's dusky face seemed to
brighten, his eyes to gather almost a smile, whenever such
parties were seen. It was plain to his captors that he looked
upon the wandering bands as friendly to his interests.
Always the marching men--if scrambling up a mountain side in
undignified positions may justly be described as marching--were
headed for heights above. All were proceeding as silently as
possible, too, and that gave an air of secrecy, of mystery,
to the wild scenery and the romantic moonlight. Occasionally
the flickering gold of a camp-fire mingled with the silver of the moon.
Just before dawn, when the members of the party were nearly ready to
drop from exhaustion, a sharp challenge rang out ahead, and Lieutenant
Gordon gave a word which caused a cautious guard to withdraw his
threatening gun, and to hasten forward to greet his chief. With
his first breath he asked a question.
"Have you seen anything of those confounded boys?"
"The drummer and the Bowery lad?" asked the lieutenant. "Why, we
left them with you when we went down the hill."
"Well, they're gone!" exclaimed the guard, despondently.
"Gone!" repeated Nestor, stepping forward. "Where have they gone?
Has anything been heard of Fremont?"
"Not a word," said the guard, answering only the last question.
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