He did not see it at first and all his faculties became absorbed in the search.

Holding the clubbed musket ready for an instant blow he peered into the grass and short bushes.

He was a Spaniard not without courage, but he was oppressed by the night, the wilderness, the huge river flowing by, and his feeling that he was far, very far, from Spain.

Under the circumstances, the poisonous hiss inspired him with an intense dread and he was eager to slay.

He leaned a little farther, swinging the musket butt back and forth, ready for a quick blow when he should see the target.
He did not hear a light step behind him, but he did feel a powerful arm grasp him around the waist, pinning his own arms to his side, while a hand was clasped over his mouth, checking the ready cry that could not pass his lips.