I feel as if I had deserted him in his need; my conscience reproaches me bitterly.

And yet--good God! What is that?
A black hand in the snow! "With a single bound I am there.

Gondocori follows, and as I seize one hand he finds and grasps the other, and we pull out of the drift the negro's apparently lifeless body.
"He is dead," says the _cacique_.
"I don't think so.

Raise him up, and let the sun shine on him." I take out my pocket-flask and pour a few drops of _aguardiente_ down his throat.

Presently Gahra sighs and opens his eyes, and a few minutes later is able to stand up and walk about.