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The icy wind blows through a hundred crevices; my limbs are frozen stiff, and when morning comes many of us look more dead than alive. I asked Condocori how the poor girls of San Andrea could possibly have survived so severe a journey. "The weaker would have died. But I did not expect this cold. The winter is beginning unusually early this year.
It was a strange act on the part of a wild Indian, and confirmed the suspicion I already entertained, that Condocori was the son of a Christian mother. "He is a heathen; his oath is worthless; don't trust him, let the girls go," whispered the padre in my ear. But I had already made up my mind.
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