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The forecast given them by the flowers of the uinay is gradually being made good by what they see a dun yellowish cloud rising against the horizon ahead. The gaucho well understands the sign, soon as he sees this recognising it as the dreaded dust-storm. It approaches them just as it had done the Indians.
"I observe that the corollas are well nigh closed, which they should not be at this hour of the day, if the tree is in a healthy condition. It's the uinay; I know it well. We have passed several on the way as we started this morning, but I noticed none with the flowers thus shrivelled up." "Stand still a while," counsels Gaspar, "and watch them."
For while they stand watching the uinay, its flowers continue to close their corollas, the petals assuming a shrunk, withered appearance. The gaucho's countenance seems to take its cue from them, growing graver as he stands contemplating the change.
"Por Dios!" he at length exclaims, "if that tree be speaking truth, and I never knew of the uinay telling lies, we'll have a storm upon us within twenty minutes' time; such a one as will sweep us out of our saddles, if we can't get under shelter. Ay, sure it's going to be either a temporal or tormenta! And this is not the where to meet it.
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