Stronghand by Gustave Aimard

We will not return to Stronghand and Jose Paredes, whom we have left too long at the top of the hill. The night passed without any incident, the majordomo sleeping like a man overcome by fatigue; as for the hunter, he did not close his eyes once. The sun had risen for a long time; it was nearly nine o'clock, but the hunter, forgetting apparently what he had said to his comrade, did not dream of departure. Jose Paredes slept on. It was a magnificent day; the sky, swept by the night hurricane, was cloudless; the sun darted down its glowing beams; and yet the atmosphere, tempered by the storm, retained an agreeable freshness. The water was disappearing with a rapidity almost equalling that it bad displayed in rising, being drunk by the thirsty sand or by the hot sunbeams; the plain had lost its lacustrine appearance; and all led to the supposition that by midday the ground would be firm enough to be ventured on in safety.

As the canoe was unnecessary, the hunter did not try to get it down from the tree; with his back leant against the larch tree, his hands folded, and his head bowed on his chest, he was thinking, and at times taking an anxious glance at his sleeping comrade. At length the majordomo turned, stretched out his arms and legs, opened his eyes, and gave a formidable yawn.