Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Four.Tiburcio in Danger.Cuchillo opened the door, outside of which appeared one of the attendants of Don Estevan. Without entering the man communicated his message—which was to Cuchillo himself—to the effect that Don Estevan awaited him in the garden. The outlaw, without reply, followed the servant, who conducted him to an alley between two rows of granadines, where a man wrapped in his cloak was pacing to and fro, apparently buried in a deep meditation. It was Don Estevan himself.The approach of Cuchillo interrupted his reverie, and a change passed over his countenance. Had Cuchillo not been preoccupied with his own thoughts and purposes of vengeance, he might have observed on the features of the Spaniard an expression of disdainful raillery, that evidently concerned himself.“You have sent for me?” said he to Don Estevan.“You cannot otherwise than approve of my discretion,” began the Spaniard, without making answer. “I have allowed you time enough to sound this young fellow—you know whom I mean. Well! no doubt you have penetrated to the bottom and know all—you, whose perspicacity is only equalled by the tenderness of your conscience?”There was an ascerbity in this speech which caused the outlaw to feel ill at ease, for it re-opened the wounds of his self-esteem.“Well,” continued Don Estevan, “what have you learnt?”“Nothing,” replied Cuchillo.“Nothing!”“No; the young man could tell me nothing, since he knew nothing himself. He has no secrets for me.”“What! does he not suspect the existence of the Golden Valley?”“He knows no more of it than of the Garden of Eden,” replied Cuchillo, with a confident swagger.“What was bringing him to the hacienda, then—for that is upon the route? He must have some object in coming this way.”“O yes!—he came to ask Don Augustin to take him into his service as a vaquero.”“It is evident,” said the Spaniard, in a tone of mockery, “that you have gained his full confidence and know all about him.”“I flatter myself, my perspicacity—”“Is only equalled by the tenderness of your conscience,” interrupted Don Estevan, still keeping up his tone of raillery. “Well, but has this young man not confided to you any other secret? You have had a long ride together, and an opportunity to talk of many things. For instance, has he said nothing to you about an affair of the heart?—has he not told you he was in love?”“Por Dios! Who could Tiburcio be in love with in these deserts? The poor devil is likely to think more of a good horse than a pretty girl.”“Indeed!” exclaimed the Spaniard, with a mocking laugh that sent a shivering through the frame of Cuchillo. “Well, well! friend Cuchillo, your youth promised better than this. If your conscience is as callous as your perspicacity is obtuse—which God forbid—it is not likely to interfere with your sleep.”“What do you mean, señor?” demanded Cuchillo, evidently confounded by the reproach.“I fear, my friend, that in the only good action you have ever done, you have made a bad hand of it.”“Good action!” repeated Cuchillo, embarrassed to know at what epoch of his life he had done such a thing.“Yes—in saving this young man’s life.”“But it was you who did that good action: as for me, it was only a lucrative one.”“Be it so. I will lend it to you, notwithstanding the proverb which says we should only lend to the rich. But now hear what I have ascertained—I, who do not boast either of my scruples of conscience or of my perspicacity. This young man has in his pocket, at this moment, a written direction of the route to the Golden Valley; moreover, he is passionately in love with Doña Rosarita, for whom he would give all the gold in this valley, or all the gold in the world, and all the horses in Sonora, if he had them. Moreover, his object in coming to the Hacienda del Venado, was to make himself its future proprietor.”“Blood and thunder!” cried Cuchillo, started as if bitten by a snake—“that cannot be—it is not possible I could be fooled in that manner by a child!”“That child is a giant beside you, master Cuchillo,” coldly replied Arechiza.“It is impossible!” exclaimed the exasperated Cuchillo.“Do you wish the proofs?—if you do you shall have them—but I may tell you they are of a nature to make you shudder from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet.”“No matter; I should like to hear them,” said Cuchillo in a suppressed voice.“I will not speak of your conscience—mark that well, Cuchillo! For I know that it never shudders—nor yet shall I speak of your timidity, which I observed last night while you were in the presence of the jaguars—”Don Estevan paused, to let his words have their full effect. It was his design to crush by his superiority the man whose fidelity he had a thousand reasons to suspect.“Tiburcio,” continued he, “is of a race—or appears to be of a race—that unites intelligence with courage; and you are his mortal enemy. Do you begin to understand me?”“No,” said Cuchillo.“Well, you will presently, after a few simple questions which I intend to ask you. The first is:—In your expedition with Arellanos, had you not a horse that stumbled in the left leg?”“Eh!” ejaculated Cuchillo, turning pale.“A second question:—Were they reallyIndianswho murdered your companion?”“Perhaps it was me?” replied the outlaw, with a hideous smile.“Third question:—Did you not receive, in a deadly struggle, a wound in the leg? and fourth: Did you not carry upon your shoulder the dead body of Arellanos?”“I did—to preserve it from being mutilated by the Indians.”“One more question:—Was it for this you flung the dead body into the neighbouring river—not quite dead, it may be?”The beams of the moon, slanting through the leaves of the granadines, shone with a livid reflection on the face of the outlaw, who with haggard eyes listened, without comprehending whence they came, to the proofs of a murder which he believed forever buried in the desert.Cuchillo, when imparting to Don Estevan the knowledge of his marvellous secret, had of course taken care not to give in detail the exact manner by which he had himself become master of it; he had merely stated such circumstances as were necessary to convince the Spaniard of the importance of the discovery. It would be impossible to paint the stupefied expression of his countenance, as he listened to these interrogatories. The very desert itself had spoken!“Does Tiburcio know all this?” he asked, with an ill-dissembled anxiety.“No; but he knows that the assassin of his father had a horse like yours; that he was wounded in the leg; that he flung the dead body in the water. Of one matter only is he still ignorant—the name of the murderer. But now let me say to you; if you give me the slightest cause to suspect your fidelity, I shall deliver the secret to this young man, who will crush you like a scorpion. Good blood never lies; so I repeat it, Cuchillo; no deception—no treason, or your life will answer for it!”“Well, as regards Tiburcio,” muttered Cuchillo to himself, “if you only keep the secret till this time to-morrow night, you may then shout it in his ears: I shall have no fear of his hearing you.”The outlaw was one of those characters who soon recover from a shock, similar to that he had just received. Almost on the instant he inquired, with impudent assurance:“But your Excellency has not proved to me that this young fellow is in love with Doña Rosarita; and until I have proof of this I shall not doubt my penetration—”“Hush!” interrupted the Spaniard; “I fancy I hear voices!”Both remained silent. In advancing across the garden, the two men had approached nearer to the walls of the building, and on that side of it which fronted the window belonging to the chamber of Rosarita. They were still at a considerable distance from the window itself; but so tranquil was the night, that sounds could be heard along way off. As they stood to listen, a confused murmur of voices reached their ears—as of two persons engaged in conversation—but the words could not be distinguished.“It is the voice of Tiburcio and Rosarita!” muttered the outlaw.“Did I not tell you? You may take that, I think, as an instalment of the proof you are desirous of having.”A reflection, at this moment, came into the mind of the Spaniard, that struck upon his spirit like a thunderbolt. It was this:—“If the young girl, after all, is really in love with this fellow, what a dilemma! I may have to renounce all idea of the marriage, which I had designed as the corner-stone of my vast edifice!”Don Estevan was the only one who at this time was aware of the real name and family of Tiburcio, and of course knew that he was not unworthy of the daughter of a Mexican haciendado. But it had never entered his mind that this young girl, who only regarded Tiburcio in the light of a poor gambusino, would think for a moment of reciprocating his passion. His ideas were suddenly altered, however, on hearing the voices of Tiburcio and Rosarita, alternating with each other, with no other witness to their conversation than the stars in the sky. It was evident, therefore, that Rosarita did not regard the young rustic with an unfavouring eye. An interview, such as this, could not be otherwise than a thing premeditated and prearranged.The heart of the Spaniard swelled with rage at the thought. His ambition was suddenly alarmed: for this was an obstacle that had never occurred to him. His countenance exhibited a thoughtful and troubled expression. He found himself unexpectedly in the presence of one of those exigencies, which render diplomacy powerless, and absolve all reasons of state. He had behind him a man ready to destroy whatever victims he might point out; but he remembered that twenty years of expiation had failed to wash from his memory a murder of which he had been himself accused. Should he, then, after having passed the middle of his career, again embitter the remainder of his days by another deed of blood? On the other hand, so near the object of his ambition, was he to permit this barrier to stand in his way? or with a bold effort to rid himself of the obstacle?Thus it is that the ambitious continually roll before them the rock of Sisyphus!“Providence,” said he to himself—and as he pronounced the word a bitter smile played upon his lips—“Providence offers me an opportunity to restore to this young man his name and his fortune, and the honours which he has lost. Such a good action in my ripe age would perhaps compensate for the crime of my youth. But, no—no—I spurn the occasion—it is but a slight sacrifice to the cause which I serve.”As he spoke, his face was turned towards Cuchillo, who was observing him attentively; but the shadow of the trees hindered the outlaw from noting the sombre expression of his countenance.“The hour is come,” said he, speaking to Cuchillo in a low voice, “when our doubts are to be solved. But remember! your projects of vengeance must remain subordinate to my wishes—now follow me!”Saying this, he walked silently towards the hacienda, followed by the assassin.The storm which threatened Tiburcio promised soon to break over his head. Two dangerous enemies were approaching him; Cuchillo with wounded self-esteem, and purposes of vengeance that caused, him to grind his teeth as he thought of them; and Don Estevan, smarting at the discovery of such an obstacle to his ambition.Tiburcio in going forth from his chamber, and traversing the path that conducted him to the appointed rendezvous, was under the belief he had not been observed: neither was he; but unfortunately chance had now betrayed him.The night was not so dark as Don Estevan and Cuchillo would have wished; nevertheless, by crouching low, and keeping well in to the wall that enclosed the garden, they succeeded in reaching a little grove of orange and citron trees, the foliage of which was thick enough to shelter them from view. From this grove, thanks to the calmness of the night, they could catch every word that was said—for under the shadow of the trees they were able to approach very near to the speakers.“Whatever you may hear,” whispered Don Estevan in the ear of the other, “remain motionless as I do.”“I will,” simply answered Cuchillo.The two now placed themselves in an attitude to see and hear. They were separated from the speakers by a slight barrier of leaves and branches, and by a distance not greater than an active man could pass over in two bounds. Little did the victims of their espionage suspect their proximity—little dreamt Tiburcio of the danger that was so near him.

Cuchillo opened the door, outside of which appeared one of the attendants of Don Estevan. Without entering the man communicated his message—which was to Cuchillo himself—to the effect that Don Estevan awaited him in the garden. The outlaw, without reply, followed the servant, who conducted him to an alley between two rows of granadines, where a man wrapped in his cloak was pacing to and fro, apparently buried in a deep meditation. It was Don Estevan himself.

The approach of Cuchillo interrupted his reverie, and a change passed over his countenance. Had Cuchillo not been preoccupied with his own thoughts and purposes of vengeance, he might have observed on the features of the Spaniard an expression of disdainful raillery, that evidently concerned himself.

“You have sent for me?” said he to Don Estevan.

“You cannot otherwise than approve of my discretion,” began the Spaniard, without making answer. “I have allowed you time enough to sound this young fellow—you know whom I mean. Well! no doubt you have penetrated to the bottom and know all—you, whose perspicacity is only equalled by the tenderness of your conscience?”

There was an ascerbity in this speech which caused the outlaw to feel ill at ease, for it re-opened the wounds of his self-esteem.

“Well,” continued Don Estevan, “what have you learnt?”

“Nothing,” replied Cuchillo.

“Nothing!”

“No; the young man could tell me nothing, since he knew nothing himself. He has no secrets for me.”

“What! does he not suspect the existence of the Golden Valley?”

“He knows no more of it than of the Garden of Eden,” replied Cuchillo, with a confident swagger.

“What was bringing him to the hacienda, then—for that is upon the route? He must have some object in coming this way.”

“O yes!—he came to ask Don Augustin to take him into his service as a vaquero.”

“It is evident,” said the Spaniard, in a tone of mockery, “that you have gained his full confidence and know all about him.”

“I flatter myself, my perspicacity—”

“Is only equalled by the tenderness of your conscience,” interrupted Don Estevan, still keeping up his tone of raillery. “Well, but has this young man not confided to you any other secret? You have had a long ride together, and an opportunity to talk of many things. For instance, has he said nothing to you about an affair of the heart?—has he not told you he was in love?”

“Por Dios! Who could Tiburcio be in love with in these deserts? The poor devil is likely to think more of a good horse than a pretty girl.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the Spaniard, with a mocking laugh that sent a shivering through the frame of Cuchillo. “Well, well! friend Cuchillo, your youth promised better than this. If your conscience is as callous as your perspicacity is obtuse—which God forbid—it is not likely to interfere with your sleep.”

“What do you mean, señor?” demanded Cuchillo, evidently confounded by the reproach.

“I fear, my friend, that in the only good action you have ever done, you have made a bad hand of it.”

“Good action!” repeated Cuchillo, embarrassed to know at what epoch of his life he had done such a thing.

“Yes—in saving this young man’s life.”

“But it was you who did that good action: as for me, it was only a lucrative one.”

“Be it so. I will lend it to you, notwithstanding the proverb which says we should only lend to the rich. But now hear what I have ascertained—I, who do not boast either of my scruples of conscience or of my perspicacity. This young man has in his pocket, at this moment, a written direction of the route to the Golden Valley; moreover, he is passionately in love with Doña Rosarita, for whom he would give all the gold in this valley, or all the gold in the world, and all the horses in Sonora, if he had them. Moreover, his object in coming to the Hacienda del Venado, was to make himself its future proprietor.”

“Blood and thunder!” cried Cuchillo, started as if bitten by a snake—“that cannot be—it is not possible I could be fooled in that manner by a child!”

“That child is a giant beside you, master Cuchillo,” coldly replied Arechiza.

“It is impossible!” exclaimed the exasperated Cuchillo.

“Do you wish the proofs?—if you do you shall have them—but I may tell you they are of a nature to make you shudder from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet.”

“No matter; I should like to hear them,” said Cuchillo in a suppressed voice.

“I will not speak of your conscience—mark that well, Cuchillo! For I know that it never shudders—nor yet shall I speak of your timidity, which I observed last night while you were in the presence of the jaguars—”

Don Estevan paused, to let his words have their full effect. It was his design to crush by his superiority the man whose fidelity he had a thousand reasons to suspect.

“Tiburcio,” continued he, “is of a race—or appears to be of a race—that unites intelligence with courage; and you are his mortal enemy. Do you begin to understand me?”

“No,” said Cuchillo.

“Well, you will presently, after a few simple questions which I intend to ask you. The first is:—In your expedition with Arellanos, had you not a horse that stumbled in the left leg?”

“Eh!” ejaculated Cuchillo, turning pale.

“A second question:—Were they reallyIndianswho murdered your companion?”

“Perhaps it was me?” replied the outlaw, with a hideous smile.

“Third question:—Did you not receive, in a deadly struggle, a wound in the leg? and fourth: Did you not carry upon your shoulder the dead body of Arellanos?”

“I did—to preserve it from being mutilated by the Indians.”

“One more question:—Was it for this you flung the dead body into the neighbouring river—not quite dead, it may be?”

The beams of the moon, slanting through the leaves of the granadines, shone with a livid reflection on the face of the outlaw, who with haggard eyes listened, without comprehending whence they came, to the proofs of a murder which he believed forever buried in the desert.

Cuchillo, when imparting to Don Estevan the knowledge of his marvellous secret, had of course taken care not to give in detail the exact manner by which he had himself become master of it; he had merely stated such circumstances as were necessary to convince the Spaniard of the importance of the discovery. It would be impossible to paint the stupefied expression of his countenance, as he listened to these interrogatories. The very desert itself had spoken!

“Does Tiburcio know all this?” he asked, with an ill-dissembled anxiety.

“No; but he knows that the assassin of his father had a horse like yours; that he was wounded in the leg; that he flung the dead body in the water. Of one matter only is he still ignorant—the name of the murderer. But now let me say to you; if you give me the slightest cause to suspect your fidelity, I shall deliver the secret to this young man, who will crush you like a scorpion. Good blood never lies; so I repeat it, Cuchillo; no deception—no treason, or your life will answer for it!”

“Well, as regards Tiburcio,” muttered Cuchillo to himself, “if you only keep the secret till this time to-morrow night, you may then shout it in his ears: I shall have no fear of his hearing you.”

The outlaw was one of those characters who soon recover from a shock, similar to that he had just received. Almost on the instant he inquired, with impudent assurance:

“But your Excellency has not proved to me that this young fellow is in love with Doña Rosarita; and until I have proof of this I shall not doubt my penetration—”

“Hush!” interrupted the Spaniard; “I fancy I hear voices!”

Both remained silent. In advancing across the garden, the two men had approached nearer to the walls of the building, and on that side of it which fronted the window belonging to the chamber of Rosarita. They were still at a considerable distance from the window itself; but so tranquil was the night, that sounds could be heard along way off. As they stood to listen, a confused murmur of voices reached their ears—as of two persons engaged in conversation—but the words could not be distinguished.

“It is the voice of Tiburcio and Rosarita!” muttered the outlaw.

“Did I not tell you? You may take that, I think, as an instalment of the proof you are desirous of having.”

A reflection, at this moment, came into the mind of the Spaniard, that struck upon his spirit like a thunderbolt. It was this:—“If the young girl, after all, is really in love with this fellow, what a dilemma! I may have to renounce all idea of the marriage, which I had designed as the corner-stone of my vast edifice!”

Don Estevan was the only one who at this time was aware of the real name and family of Tiburcio, and of course knew that he was not unworthy of the daughter of a Mexican haciendado. But it had never entered his mind that this young girl, who only regarded Tiburcio in the light of a poor gambusino, would think for a moment of reciprocating his passion. His ideas were suddenly altered, however, on hearing the voices of Tiburcio and Rosarita, alternating with each other, with no other witness to their conversation than the stars in the sky. It was evident, therefore, that Rosarita did not regard the young rustic with an unfavouring eye. An interview, such as this, could not be otherwise than a thing premeditated and prearranged.

The heart of the Spaniard swelled with rage at the thought. His ambition was suddenly alarmed: for this was an obstacle that had never occurred to him. His countenance exhibited a thoughtful and troubled expression. He found himself unexpectedly in the presence of one of those exigencies, which render diplomacy powerless, and absolve all reasons of state. He had behind him a man ready to destroy whatever victims he might point out; but he remembered that twenty years of expiation had failed to wash from his memory a murder of which he had been himself accused. Should he, then, after having passed the middle of his career, again embitter the remainder of his days by another deed of blood? On the other hand, so near the object of his ambition, was he to permit this barrier to stand in his way? or with a bold effort to rid himself of the obstacle?

Thus it is that the ambitious continually roll before them the rock of Sisyphus!

“Providence,” said he to himself—and as he pronounced the word a bitter smile played upon his lips—“Providence offers me an opportunity to restore to this young man his name and his fortune, and the honours which he has lost. Such a good action in my ripe age would perhaps compensate for the crime of my youth. But, no—no—I spurn the occasion—it is but a slight sacrifice to the cause which I serve.”

As he spoke, his face was turned towards Cuchillo, who was observing him attentively; but the shadow of the trees hindered the outlaw from noting the sombre expression of his countenance.

“The hour is come,” said he, speaking to Cuchillo in a low voice, “when our doubts are to be solved. But remember! your projects of vengeance must remain subordinate to my wishes—now follow me!”

Saying this, he walked silently towards the hacienda, followed by the assassin.

The storm which threatened Tiburcio promised soon to break over his head. Two dangerous enemies were approaching him; Cuchillo with wounded self-esteem, and purposes of vengeance that caused, him to grind his teeth as he thought of them; and Don Estevan, smarting at the discovery of such an obstacle to his ambition.

Tiburcio in going forth from his chamber, and traversing the path that conducted him to the appointed rendezvous, was under the belief he had not been observed: neither was he; but unfortunately chance had now betrayed him.

The night was not so dark as Don Estevan and Cuchillo would have wished; nevertheless, by crouching low, and keeping well in to the wall that enclosed the garden, they succeeded in reaching a little grove of orange and citron trees, the foliage of which was thick enough to shelter them from view. From this grove, thanks to the calmness of the night, they could catch every word that was said—for under the shadow of the trees they were able to approach very near to the speakers.

“Whatever you may hear,” whispered Don Estevan in the ear of the other, “remain motionless as I do.”

“I will,” simply answered Cuchillo.

The two now placed themselves in an attitude to see and hear. They were separated from the speakers by a slight barrier of leaves and branches, and by a distance not greater than an active man could pass over in two bounds. Little did the victims of their espionage suspect their proximity—little dreamt Tiburcio of the danger that was so near him.

Chapter Twenty Five.Love through the Window.For a time the listeners heard nothing beyond those commonplace speeches exchanged between lovers—when the young man, doubtful of his position, makes himself heard in reproaches, or arguments, which to him appear all-powerful, while the responses which he meets with show too plainly that he is either not loved at all, or that the advantages are on the side of the girl. But was this really the position of Tiburcio with Rosarita? It remains to be known.According to the custom of country houses throughout Mexico, the window of Rosarita’s chamber was unglazed. Strong iron bars, forming what is called thereja, hindered an entrance from without; and behind this reja, lit up by the lamp in the chamber, the young girl was standing in an attitude of graceful ease. In the calm and perfumed night she appeared even more charming than when seen in the brilliant saloon—for it is behind the railing of these balconies that the women of Spanish race appear to the greatest advantage.Arebosoof silk was thrown over her head, falling over her shoulders in graceful undulations. The window running quite down to the level of the floor concealed nothing of her person; she was visible from the crown of her head to the satin slipper that covered her pretty little foot; and the outline of her figure formed in a graceful silhouette against the light burning within.Tiburcio, his forehead resting against the bars, appeared to struggle with a painful conviction that was fast forcing itself upon him.“Ah!” said he, “I have not forgotten, as you, Rosarita, the day when I first saw you in the forest. The twilight was so sombre I could scarce make out your form, which appeared like the graceful shadow of some siren of the woods. Your voice I could hear, and there was something in it that charmed my soul—something that I had never heard till that moment.”“I have never forgotten the service you rendered us,” said the young girl; “but why recall those times? they are long past.”“Long past! no, not to me, Rosarita—that scene appears to me as if it had happened yesterday. Yes,” continued the young man, in a tone of melancholy, “when the light of the camp-fire by little and little enabled me to observe the radiant beauty of your face, I can scarce describe the emotion which it gave me.”Had Tiburcio, instead of looking to the ground, but raised his eyes at that moment, he might have noticed upon the countenance of Rosarita an expression of interest, while a slight blush reddened her cheeks. Perhaps her heart was scarce touched, but rarely does woman listen, without pleasure, to those impassioned tones that speak the praises of her beauty.Tiburcio continued in a voice still softer and more marked by emotion:—“I have not forgotten the flowers of the llianas which I gathered for you, and that seemed to give forth a sweeter perfume when mingled with the tresses of your hair. Ah! it was a subtle poison that was entering into my heart, and which has resulted in filling it with an incurable passion. Ah! fool that I have been! Is it possible, Rosarita, that you have forgotten those sweet souvenirs upon which I have lived from that day up to the present hour?”There are certain moments of indiscretion in the life of most women, of which they have a dislike to be reminded. Was it so with Rosarita? She was silent for a while, as if her rebellious memory could not recall the particulars mentioned by Tiburcio.“No,” at length answered she, in a tone so low as not to betray a slight trembling of her voice, “I do not forget, but we were then only children—to-day—”“To-day,” interrupted Tiburcio in a tone of bitter reproach, “to-day that is all forgotten, since a Senator from Arispe has condescended to comprise you in his projects of ambition.”The melodious voice of Rosarita was now heard in a tone of disdainful anger. Tiburcio had wounded her pride.“Comprise me in his projects of ambition,” said she, her beautiful nostrils curving scornfully as she spoke, “and who has told you, señor, that it is not I who condescend?”“This stranger, too,” continued Tiburcio, still preserving his reproachful manner, “this Don Estevan—whom I hate even worse than the Senator—has talked to you of the pleasures of Madrid—of the wonderful countries that lie beyond the sea—and you wish to see them with your own eyes!”“Indeed I acknowledge,” answered Rosarita, “that in these deserts life appears to me dull enough. Something tells me that I was not made to die without taking part in those splendours of the world of which I have heard so much. What can you offer to me—to my father?”“I understand now,” cried Tiburcio with despairing bitterness, “to be poor, an orphan, unhappy—these are not the titles to win the heart of a woman.”“You are unjust, Tiburcio. It is almost always the very reverse that happens—for it is the instinct of a woman to prefer those who are as you say. But it is different with fathers, who, alas! rarely share this preference with their daughters.”There was in these last words a sort of tacit avowal which Tiburcio evidently did not comprehend—for he continued his reproaches and bitter recriminations, causing the young girl many a sigh as she listened to them.“Of course you love this Senator,” said he. “Do not talk, then, of being compelled!”“Who talks of being compelled?” said Rosarita, hastily interrupting the young man. “I said nothing of compulsion, I only spoke of the desire which my father has already manifested; and against his will, the hopes you may have conceived would be nothing more than chimeras or idle dreams.”“And this will of your father is to throw you into the arms of a ruined prodigal, who has no other aim than to build up the fortune he has squandered in dissipation, and satisfy his ambitious desires? Say, Rosarita, say! is this will in consonance with your own? Does your heart agree to it? If it is not, and there is the least compulsion upon you, how happy should I be to contest for you with this rival. Ah! you do not make answer—you love him, Rosarita? And I—Oh! why did they not leave me to die upon the road?”At this moment a slight rustling was heard in the grove of oranges, where Don Estevan and Cuchillo were crouching in concealment.“Hush!” said the young girl, “did you not hear a noise?”Tiburcio turned himself quickly, his eye on fire, his heart beating joyfully with the hope of having some one upon which to vent the terrible anger that tortured it—but the rays of the moon shone only upon the silvery foliage—all was quiet around.He then resumed his gloomy and pensive attitude. Sadness had again taken possession of his soul, through which the quick burst of anger had passed as lightning though a sombre sky.“Very likely,” said he, with a melancholy smile, “it is the spirit of some poor lover who has died from despair.”“Santisima Virgen!” exclaimed Rosarita, making the sign of the cross. “You make me afraid, Tiburcio. Do you believe that one could die of love?” she inquired in a tone ofnaïvété.“It may be,” replied Tiburcio, with a sad smile still playing upon his lips. Then changing his tone, he continued, “Hear me, Rosarita! you are ambitious, you have said so—hear me then! Supposing I could give you all that has been promised you? hitherto I have preferred to plead the cause of Tiburcio poor and an orphan; I shall now advocate that of Tiburcio Arellanos on the eve of becoming rich and powerful; noble too I shall become—for I shall make myself an illustrious name and offer it to you.”As he said these words the young man raised his eyes towards heaven: his countenance exhibited an altered expression, as if there was revived in his soul the pride of an ancient race.For the first time since the commencement of the interview, Tiburcio was talking sensibly, and the daughter of Eve appeared to listen with more attention than what she had hitherto exhibited.Meanwhile the two spies were also listening attentively from their hiding-place among the oranges. Not a word of what was said, not a gesture escaped them. The last speech of Tiburcio had caused them to exchange a rapid glance. The countenance of the outlaw betrayed an expression of rage mingled with shame. After the impudent manner in which he had boasted of his penetration, he felt confounded in the presence of Don Estevan, whose eyes were fixed upon him with a look of implacable raillery.“We shall see now,” whispered the Spaniard, “whether this young fellow knows no more of the situation of the Golden Valley than he does of the Garden of Eden.”Cuchillo quailed under this terrible irony, but made no reply.As yet Don Estevan had learnt nothing new. The essential object with him was to discover whether Tiburcio’s passion was reciprocated: the rest was of little importance. In the behaviour of Rosarita there was certainly something that betrayed a tender compassion for the adopted son of Arellanos; but was this a sign of love? That was the question to which Don Estevan desired to have the answer.Meanwhile, having excited the evil passions of the outlaw to the highest pitch, he judged it prudent to moderate them again; an explosion at that moment would not have been politic on his part. A murder committed before his face, even though he had not ordered it either by word or gesture, would at least exhibit a certain complicity with the assassin, and deprive him of that authority which he now exercised over Cuchillo.“Not for your life!” said he, firmly grasping the arm of the outlaw, whose hand rested upon his knife. “Not for your soul’s safety! Remember! till I give the word, the life of this young man is sacred. Hush!” he continued, “listen!” and still holding the outlaw by the arm he turned his eyes upon Tiburcio, who had again commenced speaking.“Why should I conceal it from you longer?” exclaimed the young man, in a tone to which the attentive attitude of Rosarita had lent animation. “Hear me, then! honours—riches—power I can lay at your feet, but you alone can enable me to effect this miracle.”Rosarita fixed her eyes upon the speaker with an interrogatory expression.“Perhaps I should have told you sooner,” continued Tiburcio, “that my adopted mother no longer lives—”“I know it,” interrupted the young girl, “you are alone in the world; I heard it this evening from my father.”The voice of Rosarita, in pronouncing these words, was soft as the breeze that sighed through the groves of oranges; and her hand, falling as if by chance into that of Tiburcio, did not appear to shun the pressure given to it.At the sight of this, the hand of Don Estevan gradually relaxed its hold upon the arm of Cuchillo.“Yes,” continued Tiburcio, “my mother died in poverty, though she has left me a valuable inheritance, and at the same time a legacy of vengeance. True, it is a dangerous secret of which I am the heir, for it has already been death to those who possessed it; nevertheless it will furnish the means to raise myself to an opulence like your own. The vengeance which I have sworn to accomplish must be delayed, but it shall not be forgotten. I shall yet seek the murderer of Arellanos.”At these words Cuchillo turned pale, impatiently grinding his teeth. His arm was no longer restrained, Don Estevan grasped it no more, for he saw that the hand of Rosarita was still pressed by that of Tiburcio.“Here me further!” continued the young man. “About sixty leagues from here, in the heart of the Indian country, there is a placer of gold of incalculable richness; it was discovered by my adopted father. My mother on her death-bed gave me full directions to find the place; and all this gold may be mine, Rosarita, if you will only love me. Without your love I care nothing for it. What should I do with such riches?”Tiburcio awaited the answer of Rosarita. That answer fell upon his heart like the tolling of a funeral knell.“I hope, Tiburcio,” said she, with a significant smile, “that this is only aruseon your part to put me to the proof—I hope so, because I do not wish to believe that you have acted so vile a part as to make yourself master of a secret that belongs to another.”“The secret of another!” cried the young man in a voice hoarse with astonishment.“Yes, a secret which belongs only to Don Estevan. I know it—”Tiburcio at once fell from the summit of his dreams. So his secret, too, was lost to him as well as her whom he loved, this secret upon which he had built his sweetest hopes; and to add to the bitterness of his disappointment, she too—for whose sake alone he had valued it—she to accuse him of treason!“Ah!” cried he, “Don Estevan knows of the Golden Valley? perhaps then he can tell me who murdered my father! Oh! my God!” cried he, striking the ground with his heel, “perhaps it was himself!”“Pray God rather to protect you,—you will need all his grace!” cried a rough voice, which caused Rosarita to utter a cry of terror as she saw a dark form—that of a man—rushing forward and flinging himself upon Tiburcio.The young man, before he could place himself in an attitude of defence, received a severe wound, and losing his balance fell to the ground. The next moment his enemy was over him. For some minutes the two struggled together in silence—nothing was heard but their loud quick breathing. The knife of Cuchillo, already stained with blood, had escaped from his hand, and lay gleaming upon the ground without his being able to reach it.“Now, villain, we are quits,” cried Tiburcio, who with an effort of supreme strength had got uppermost, and was kneeling upon the breast of the outlaw. “Villain!” repeated he, as he endeavoured to get hold of his poignard: “you shall die the death of an assassin.”Places had suddenly changed—Tiburcio was now the aggressor, but at this moment a third personage appeared upon the scene. It was Don Estevan.“Hold,” screamed Rosarita, “hold, for the love of the Holy Virgin! This young man is my father’s guest; his life is sacred under our roof.”Don Estevan grasped the arm that was raised to strike Cuchillo, and as Tiburcio turned to see what thus interfered between him and his vengeance, the outlaw glided from under him.Tiburcio now sprang up, rolled his serapé around his left arm, and holding it as a shield, stood with his body inclined backward, his left leg advanced, and his right hand firmly grasping his weapon, in the attitude of an ancient gladiator. He appeared for a moment as if choosing upon which of his antagonists he would first launch himself.“You call this being quits!” cried Cuchillo, his breast still heaving from the pressure to Tiburcio’s knee. “Your life belongs to me—I only lent it to you, and I shall now take it back.”“Come on, dog!” shouted Tiburcio, in answer; “and you too, Don Estevan, you cowardly assassin! you who pay for the murder of defenceless people.”The countenance of the Spaniard turned livid pale at this unexpected accusation. He instantly drew his dagger, and crying out:—“Down with him, Cuchillo!” rushed furiously forward to the attack.No doubt Tiburcio would soon have succumbed before two such formidable antagonists, but at this moment a red light flashed upon the combatants, as Doña Rosarita, with a flaming torch in her hand, rushed forward between them.The aspect of Tiburcio, who, despite the odds against him, and the blood that was running from his arm, still fearlessly maintained his defensive attitude, caused the heart of Rosarita to beat with sympathetic admiration. This sanguinarydénouementto their interview, was pleading the cause of the lover far more eloquently than either his reproaches or promises!The first impulse of Rosarita was to fling herself into the arms of the young man so daring and beautiful. She was restrained only from following this impulse, by a feeling of feminine delicacy; and for an instant Tiburcio seemed the one about whom she was least concerned.“Oh! my God!” cried she, “are you wounded? Don Estevan? Señor Cuchillo? Señor Arechiza! retire; for the love of the Virgin, let not the world know that a crime has been committed in our house.”The excited bearing of the young girl, her bosom heaving under the light tissue of her dress, her reboso floating behind her, mingled with the long dark tresses of her dishevelled hair—all these, added to the proud savage beauty of her countenance—commanded respect; and as if by enchantment, the weapons of the combatants were restored to their sheaths.Cuchillo growled like a dog newly muzzled, while Don Estevan preserved a sombre silence. Both walked away from the ground, and their forms were soon lost in the darkness.Tiburcio, with face upturned, his eyes still flashing with rage, his features illuminated with the red light of the torch, remained for some moments without changing his attitude. His features exhibited that superb expression that danger only magnifies into grandeur. Gradually, however, their tone became softened, and an air of melancholy succeeded it, as his eyes rested upon Rosarita. The young girl had suddenly become pale, under the reaction of such vivid emotions, as well as under the influence of the powerful sentiment now rekindled within her heart. Acting under this influence as well, she hastily arranged her scarf in order to cover her nude shoulders, and the palpitating movements of her bosom. Even her motive for this was misunderstood by Tiburcio.“Rosarita!” he said, speaking with perfect calmness, “I might have doubted your words, but your actions have spoken more plainly. It was to my enemies you first ran, though my blood was spilling; all your fears appeared to be for Don Estevan.”“God knows that I do not deserve this reproach,” said the young girl, as with a look of terror she saw the blood streaming to the ground. At the same instant she advanced to examine the wound.Tiburcio repulsed her by stepping backward.“It is too late,” said he with a bitter smile, “the evil is done. Adieu! I have been too long your guest. The hospitality of your house is fatal to me. Under your roof my life has been threatened, my dearest hopes have been crushed! Adieu, Rosarita! Adieu!”As he pronounced the last words, he turned and walked hastily away. There was a broken place in the wall of the enclosure, and towards this he directed his steps. A hundred paces beyond, the forest commenced, and the dark sombre trees were visible through the opening. The mysterious light he had already noticed, was still glimmering feebly above their tops.“Where are you going, Tiburcio?” cried the young girl, her hands joined and her eyes filling with tears, “my father’s roof will protect you.”Tiburcio only answered by a negative shake of the head.“But yonder,” continued Rosarita, pointing to the woods, “yonder, alone and without defence—danger—death will await you.”“God will send me friends,” answered Tiburcio, glancing towards the distant light. “The hospitality of the wandering traveller—a sleep by his camp-fire—will be safer for me than that of your father’s roof.” And Tiburcio continued to advance towards the breach with a gentle but resolute step.“For the love of heaven do not expose yourself to dangers that may perhaps arise when I am no longer present to protect you! I tell you out yonder you will be risking your life;” then giving to her voice a tone of persuasive softness, she continued, “In what place, Tiburcio, will you be safer than with me?”Tiburcio’s resolution was for a moment shaken, and he paused to make answer.“One word, Rosarita!” said he; “say that you hate my rival as I hate him—say this, and I remain.”A violent conflict appeared to arise in the breast of Rosarita. Her bosom swelled with conflicting emotions, as she fixed upon Tiburcio a glance of tender reproach, but she remained silent.To a man of Tiburcio’s age the heart of a woman is a sealed book. Not till we have lost the attractions of youth—so powerful, despite its inexperience—are we able to penetrate the mysteries of the female heart—a sad compensation which God accords to the maturity of age. At thirty years Tiburcio would have remained. But he was yet only twenty-four; he had spent his whole life in the desert, and this was his first love.“You will not say it? Adieu, then,” cried he, “I am no longer your guest,” and saying this, he leaped over the broken wall, before the young girl could offer any opposition to his departure.Stupefied by this unexpected movement, she mounted upon the fragments that lay at the bottom of the wall, and stretching her arms toward the forest, she cried out—“Tiburcio! Tiburcio! do not leave us so; do you wish to bring upon our house the malediction of heaven?”But her voice was either lost to his ears, or he disdained to reply.She listened a moment, she could hear the sound of his footsteps fast dying in the distance—until they could be heard no more.“Oh! my God,” cried she, falling upon her knees in an attitude of prayer, “protect this young man from the dangers that threaten him. Oh God! watch over him, for alas! he carries with him my heart.”Then forgetting in her grief her projects of ambition, the will of her father, all that deceptive confidence, which had kept silent the voice of a love, of the existence of which she was hitherto almost ignorant—the young girl rose hastily from her knees, once more mounted upon the wall, and in a heart-rending voice called out, “Come back! Tiburcio; come back! I love only you!”But no answer was returned, and wrapping her face in her reboso, she sat down and wept.Before returning to her chamber she cast one more look in the direction of the forest, but the woods were still enveloped in the obscurity of night; all was sombre and silent, though in the distance the feeble light was still glimmering over the tree tops. All at once it appeared for an instant to flash more brightly, as if offering a welcome to him who had no longer a home!

For a time the listeners heard nothing beyond those commonplace speeches exchanged between lovers—when the young man, doubtful of his position, makes himself heard in reproaches, or arguments, which to him appear all-powerful, while the responses which he meets with show too plainly that he is either not loved at all, or that the advantages are on the side of the girl. But was this really the position of Tiburcio with Rosarita? It remains to be known.

According to the custom of country houses throughout Mexico, the window of Rosarita’s chamber was unglazed. Strong iron bars, forming what is called thereja, hindered an entrance from without; and behind this reja, lit up by the lamp in the chamber, the young girl was standing in an attitude of graceful ease. In the calm and perfumed night she appeared even more charming than when seen in the brilliant saloon—for it is behind the railing of these balconies that the women of Spanish race appear to the greatest advantage.

Arebosoof silk was thrown over her head, falling over her shoulders in graceful undulations. The window running quite down to the level of the floor concealed nothing of her person; she was visible from the crown of her head to the satin slipper that covered her pretty little foot; and the outline of her figure formed in a graceful silhouette against the light burning within.

Tiburcio, his forehead resting against the bars, appeared to struggle with a painful conviction that was fast forcing itself upon him.

“Ah!” said he, “I have not forgotten, as you, Rosarita, the day when I first saw you in the forest. The twilight was so sombre I could scarce make out your form, which appeared like the graceful shadow of some siren of the woods. Your voice I could hear, and there was something in it that charmed my soul—something that I had never heard till that moment.”

“I have never forgotten the service you rendered us,” said the young girl; “but why recall those times? they are long past.”

“Long past! no, not to me, Rosarita—that scene appears to me as if it had happened yesterday. Yes,” continued the young man, in a tone of melancholy, “when the light of the camp-fire by little and little enabled me to observe the radiant beauty of your face, I can scarce describe the emotion which it gave me.”

Had Tiburcio, instead of looking to the ground, but raised his eyes at that moment, he might have noticed upon the countenance of Rosarita an expression of interest, while a slight blush reddened her cheeks. Perhaps her heart was scarce touched, but rarely does woman listen, without pleasure, to those impassioned tones that speak the praises of her beauty.

Tiburcio continued in a voice still softer and more marked by emotion:—“I have not forgotten the flowers of the llianas which I gathered for you, and that seemed to give forth a sweeter perfume when mingled with the tresses of your hair. Ah! it was a subtle poison that was entering into my heart, and which has resulted in filling it with an incurable passion. Ah! fool that I have been! Is it possible, Rosarita, that you have forgotten those sweet souvenirs upon which I have lived from that day up to the present hour?”

There are certain moments of indiscretion in the life of most women, of which they have a dislike to be reminded. Was it so with Rosarita? She was silent for a while, as if her rebellious memory could not recall the particulars mentioned by Tiburcio.

“No,” at length answered she, in a tone so low as not to betray a slight trembling of her voice, “I do not forget, but we were then only children—to-day—”

“To-day,” interrupted Tiburcio in a tone of bitter reproach, “to-day that is all forgotten, since a Senator from Arispe has condescended to comprise you in his projects of ambition.”

The melodious voice of Rosarita was now heard in a tone of disdainful anger. Tiburcio had wounded her pride.

“Comprise me in his projects of ambition,” said she, her beautiful nostrils curving scornfully as she spoke, “and who has told you, señor, that it is not I who condescend?”

“This stranger, too,” continued Tiburcio, still preserving his reproachful manner, “this Don Estevan—whom I hate even worse than the Senator—has talked to you of the pleasures of Madrid—of the wonderful countries that lie beyond the sea—and you wish to see them with your own eyes!”

“Indeed I acknowledge,” answered Rosarita, “that in these deserts life appears to me dull enough. Something tells me that I was not made to die without taking part in those splendours of the world of which I have heard so much. What can you offer to me—to my father?”

“I understand now,” cried Tiburcio with despairing bitterness, “to be poor, an orphan, unhappy—these are not the titles to win the heart of a woman.”

“You are unjust, Tiburcio. It is almost always the very reverse that happens—for it is the instinct of a woman to prefer those who are as you say. But it is different with fathers, who, alas! rarely share this preference with their daughters.”

There was in these last words a sort of tacit avowal which Tiburcio evidently did not comprehend—for he continued his reproaches and bitter recriminations, causing the young girl many a sigh as she listened to them.

“Of course you love this Senator,” said he. “Do not talk, then, of being compelled!”

“Who talks of being compelled?” said Rosarita, hastily interrupting the young man. “I said nothing of compulsion, I only spoke of the desire which my father has already manifested; and against his will, the hopes you may have conceived would be nothing more than chimeras or idle dreams.”

“And this will of your father is to throw you into the arms of a ruined prodigal, who has no other aim than to build up the fortune he has squandered in dissipation, and satisfy his ambitious desires? Say, Rosarita, say! is this will in consonance with your own? Does your heart agree to it? If it is not, and there is the least compulsion upon you, how happy should I be to contest for you with this rival. Ah! you do not make answer—you love him, Rosarita? And I—Oh! why did they not leave me to die upon the road?”

At this moment a slight rustling was heard in the grove of oranges, where Don Estevan and Cuchillo were crouching in concealment.

“Hush!” said the young girl, “did you not hear a noise?”

Tiburcio turned himself quickly, his eye on fire, his heart beating joyfully with the hope of having some one upon which to vent the terrible anger that tortured it—but the rays of the moon shone only upon the silvery foliage—all was quiet around.

He then resumed his gloomy and pensive attitude. Sadness had again taken possession of his soul, through which the quick burst of anger had passed as lightning though a sombre sky.

“Very likely,” said he, with a melancholy smile, “it is the spirit of some poor lover who has died from despair.”

“Santisima Virgen!” exclaimed Rosarita, making the sign of the cross. “You make me afraid, Tiburcio. Do you believe that one could die of love?” she inquired in a tone ofnaïvété.

“It may be,” replied Tiburcio, with a sad smile still playing upon his lips. Then changing his tone, he continued, “Hear me, Rosarita! you are ambitious, you have said so—hear me then! Supposing I could give you all that has been promised you? hitherto I have preferred to plead the cause of Tiburcio poor and an orphan; I shall now advocate that of Tiburcio Arellanos on the eve of becoming rich and powerful; noble too I shall become—for I shall make myself an illustrious name and offer it to you.”

As he said these words the young man raised his eyes towards heaven: his countenance exhibited an altered expression, as if there was revived in his soul the pride of an ancient race.

For the first time since the commencement of the interview, Tiburcio was talking sensibly, and the daughter of Eve appeared to listen with more attention than what she had hitherto exhibited.

Meanwhile the two spies were also listening attentively from their hiding-place among the oranges. Not a word of what was said, not a gesture escaped them. The last speech of Tiburcio had caused them to exchange a rapid glance. The countenance of the outlaw betrayed an expression of rage mingled with shame. After the impudent manner in which he had boasted of his penetration, he felt confounded in the presence of Don Estevan, whose eyes were fixed upon him with a look of implacable raillery.

“We shall see now,” whispered the Spaniard, “whether this young fellow knows no more of the situation of the Golden Valley than he does of the Garden of Eden.”

Cuchillo quailed under this terrible irony, but made no reply.

As yet Don Estevan had learnt nothing new. The essential object with him was to discover whether Tiburcio’s passion was reciprocated: the rest was of little importance. In the behaviour of Rosarita there was certainly something that betrayed a tender compassion for the adopted son of Arellanos; but was this a sign of love? That was the question to which Don Estevan desired to have the answer.

Meanwhile, having excited the evil passions of the outlaw to the highest pitch, he judged it prudent to moderate them again; an explosion at that moment would not have been politic on his part. A murder committed before his face, even though he had not ordered it either by word or gesture, would at least exhibit a certain complicity with the assassin, and deprive him of that authority which he now exercised over Cuchillo.

“Not for your life!” said he, firmly grasping the arm of the outlaw, whose hand rested upon his knife. “Not for your soul’s safety! Remember! till I give the word, the life of this young man is sacred. Hush!” he continued, “listen!” and still holding the outlaw by the arm he turned his eyes upon Tiburcio, who had again commenced speaking.

“Why should I conceal it from you longer?” exclaimed the young man, in a tone to which the attentive attitude of Rosarita had lent animation. “Hear me, then! honours—riches—power I can lay at your feet, but you alone can enable me to effect this miracle.”

Rosarita fixed her eyes upon the speaker with an interrogatory expression.

“Perhaps I should have told you sooner,” continued Tiburcio, “that my adopted mother no longer lives—”

“I know it,” interrupted the young girl, “you are alone in the world; I heard it this evening from my father.”

The voice of Rosarita, in pronouncing these words, was soft as the breeze that sighed through the groves of oranges; and her hand, falling as if by chance into that of Tiburcio, did not appear to shun the pressure given to it.

At the sight of this, the hand of Don Estevan gradually relaxed its hold upon the arm of Cuchillo.

“Yes,” continued Tiburcio, “my mother died in poverty, though she has left me a valuable inheritance, and at the same time a legacy of vengeance. True, it is a dangerous secret of which I am the heir, for it has already been death to those who possessed it; nevertheless it will furnish the means to raise myself to an opulence like your own. The vengeance which I have sworn to accomplish must be delayed, but it shall not be forgotten. I shall yet seek the murderer of Arellanos.”

At these words Cuchillo turned pale, impatiently grinding his teeth. His arm was no longer restrained, Don Estevan grasped it no more, for he saw that the hand of Rosarita was still pressed by that of Tiburcio.

“Here me further!” continued the young man. “About sixty leagues from here, in the heart of the Indian country, there is a placer of gold of incalculable richness; it was discovered by my adopted father. My mother on her death-bed gave me full directions to find the place; and all this gold may be mine, Rosarita, if you will only love me. Without your love I care nothing for it. What should I do with such riches?”

Tiburcio awaited the answer of Rosarita. That answer fell upon his heart like the tolling of a funeral knell.

“I hope, Tiburcio,” said she, with a significant smile, “that this is only aruseon your part to put me to the proof—I hope so, because I do not wish to believe that you have acted so vile a part as to make yourself master of a secret that belongs to another.”

“The secret of another!” cried the young man in a voice hoarse with astonishment.

“Yes, a secret which belongs only to Don Estevan. I know it—”

Tiburcio at once fell from the summit of his dreams. So his secret, too, was lost to him as well as her whom he loved, this secret upon which he had built his sweetest hopes; and to add to the bitterness of his disappointment, she too—for whose sake alone he had valued it—she to accuse him of treason!

“Ah!” cried he, “Don Estevan knows of the Golden Valley? perhaps then he can tell me who murdered my father! Oh! my God!” cried he, striking the ground with his heel, “perhaps it was himself!”

“Pray God rather to protect you,—you will need all his grace!” cried a rough voice, which caused Rosarita to utter a cry of terror as she saw a dark form—that of a man—rushing forward and flinging himself upon Tiburcio.

The young man, before he could place himself in an attitude of defence, received a severe wound, and losing his balance fell to the ground. The next moment his enemy was over him. For some minutes the two struggled together in silence—nothing was heard but their loud quick breathing. The knife of Cuchillo, already stained with blood, had escaped from his hand, and lay gleaming upon the ground without his being able to reach it.

“Now, villain, we are quits,” cried Tiburcio, who with an effort of supreme strength had got uppermost, and was kneeling upon the breast of the outlaw. “Villain!” repeated he, as he endeavoured to get hold of his poignard: “you shall die the death of an assassin.”

Places had suddenly changed—Tiburcio was now the aggressor, but at this moment a third personage appeared upon the scene. It was Don Estevan.

“Hold,” screamed Rosarita, “hold, for the love of the Holy Virgin! This young man is my father’s guest; his life is sacred under our roof.”

Don Estevan grasped the arm that was raised to strike Cuchillo, and as Tiburcio turned to see what thus interfered between him and his vengeance, the outlaw glided from under him.

Tiburcio now sprang up, rolled his serapé around his left arm, and holding it as a shield, stood with his body inclined backward, his left leg advanced, and his right hand firmly grasping his weapon, in the attitude of an ancient gladiator. He appeared for a moment as if choosing upon which of his antagonists he would first launch himself.

“You call this being quits!” cried Cuchillo, his breast still heaving from the pressure to Tiburcio’s knee. “Your life belongs to me—I only lent it to you, and I shall now take it back.”

“Come on, dog!” shouted Tiburcio, in answer; “and you too, Don Estevan, you cowardly assassin! you who pay for the murder of defenceless people.”

The countenance of the Spaniard turned livid pale at this unexpected accusation. He instantly drew his dagger, and crying out:—“Down with him, Cuchillo!” rushed furiously forward to the attack.

No doubt Tiburcio would soon have succumbed before two such formidable antagonists, but at this moment a red light flashed upon the combatants, as Doña Rosarita, with a flaming torch in her hand, rushed forward between them.

The aspect of Tiburcio, who, despite the odds against him, and the blood that was running from his arm, still fearlessly maintained his defensive attitude, caused the heart of Rosarita to beat with sympathetic admiration. This sanguinarydénouementto their interview, was pleading the cause of the lover far more eloquently than either his reproaches or promises!

The first impulse of Rosarita was to fling herself into the arms of the young man so daring and beautiful. She was restrained only from following this impulse, by a feeling of feminine delicacy; and for an instant Tiburcio seemed the one about whom she was least concerned.

“Oh! my God!” cried she, “are you wounded? Don Estevan? Señor Cuchillo? Señor Arechiza! retire; for the love of the Virgin, let not the world know that a crime has been committed in our house.”

The excited bearing of the young girl, her bosom heaving under the light tissue of her dress, her reboso floating behind her, mingled with the long dark tresses of her dishevelled hair—all these, added to the proud savage beauty of her countenance—commanded respect; and as if by enchantment, the weapons of the combatants were restored to their sheaths.

Cuchillo growled like a dog newly muzzled, while Don Estevan preserved a sombre silence. Both walked away from the ground, and their forms were soon lost in the darkness.

Tiburcio, with face upturned, his eyes still flashing with rage, his features illuminated with the red light of the torch, remained for some moments without changing his attitude. His features exhibited that superb expression that danger only magnifies into grandeur. Gradually, however, their tone became softened, and an air of melancholy succeeded it, as his eyes rested upon Rosarita. The young girl had suddenly become pale, under the reaction of such vivid emotions, as well as under the influence of the powerful sentiment now rekindled within her heart. Acting under this influence as well, she hastily arranged her scarf in order to cover her nude shoulders, and the palpitating movements of her bosom. Even her motive for this was misunderstood by Tiburcio.

“Rosarita!” he said, speaking with perfect calmness, “I might have doubted your words, but your actions have spoken more plainly. It was to my enemies you first ran, though my blood was spilling; all your fears appeared to be for Don Estevan.”

“God knows that I do not deserve this reproach,” said the young girl, as with a look of terror she saw the blood streaming to the ground. At the same instant she advanced to examine the wound.

Tiburcio repulsed her by stepping backward.

“It is too late,” said he with a bitter smile, “the evil is done. Adieu! I have been too long your guest. The hospitality of your house is fatal to me. Under your roof my life has been threatened, my dearest hopes have been crushed! Adieu, Rosarita! Adieu!”

As he pronounced the last words, he turned and walked hastily away. There was a broken place in the wall of the enclosure, and towards this he directed his steps. A hundred paces beyond, the forest commenced, and the dark sombre trees were visible through the opening. The mysterious light he had already noticed, was still glimmering feebly above their tops.

“Where are you going, Tiburcio?” cried the young girl, her hands joined and her eyes filling with tears, “my father’s roof will protect you.”

Tiburcio only answered by a negative shake of the head.

“But yonder,” continued Rosarita, pointing to the woods, “yonder, alone and without defence—danger—death will await you.”

“God will send me friends,” answered Tiburcio, glancing towards the distant light. “The hospitality of the wandering traveller—a sleep by his camp-fire—will be safer for me than that of your father’s roof.” And Tiburcio continued to advance towards the breach with a gentle but resolute step.

“For the love of heaven do not expose yourself to dangers that may perhaps arise when I am no longer present to protect you! I tell you out yonder you will be risking your life;” then giving to her voice a tone of persuasive softness, she continued, “In what place, Tiburcio, will you be safer than with me?”

Tiburcio’s resolution was for a moment shaken, and he paused to make answer.

“One word, Rosarita!” said he; “say that you hate my rival as I hate him—say this, and I remain.”

A violent conflict appeared to arise in the breast of Rosarita. Her bosom swelled with conflicting emotions, as she fixed upon Tiburcio a glance of tender reproach, but she remained silent.

To a man of Tiburcio’s age the heart of a woman is a sealed book. Not till we have lost the attractions of youth—so powerful, despite its inexperience—are we able to penetrate the mysteries of the female heart—a sad compensation which God accords to the maturity of age. At thirty years Tiburcio would have remained. But he was yet only twenty-four; he had spent his whole life in the desert, and this was his first love.

“You will not say it? Adieu, then,” cried he, “I am no longer your guest,” and saying this, he leaped over the broken wall, before the young girl could offer any opposition to his departure.

Stupefied by this unexpected movement, she mounted upon the fragments that lay at the bottom of the wall, and stretching her arms toward the forest, she cried out—

“Tiburcio! Tiburcio! do not leave us so; do you wish to bring upon our house the malediction of heaven?”

But her voice was either lost to his ears, or he disdained to reply.

She listened a moment, she could hear the sound of his footsteps fast dying in the distance—until they could be heard no more.

“Oh! my God,” cried she, falling upon her knees in an attitude of prayer, “protect this young man from the dangers that threaten him. Oh God! watch over him, for alas! he carries with him my heart.”

Then forgetting in her grief her projects of ambition, the will of her father, all that deceptive confidence, which had kept silent the voice of a love, of the existence of which she was hitherto almost ignorant—the young girl rose hastily from her knees, once more mounted upon the wall, and in a heart-rending voice called out, “Come back! Tiburcio; come back! I love only you!”

But no answer was returned, and wrapping her face in her reboso, she sat down and wept.

Before returning to her chamber she cast one more look in the direction of the forest, but the woods were still enveloped in the obscurity of night; all was sombre and silent, though in the distance the feeble light was still glimmering over the tree tops. All at once it appeared for an instant to flash more brightly, as if offering a welcome to him who had no longer a home!

Chapter Twenty Six.An Abrupt Departure.Don Estevan and Cuchillo, on leaving the ground of the combat, returned to the alley of granadines; but for some time not a word passed between them. Don Estevan was buried in a profound meditation. More skilled than his coarse companion in the mysteries of the female heart, he had divined, before the end of the dialogue between Rosarita and Tiburcio, that the young girl felt for the latter a tender sentiment. It was true it was just germinating in her soul; but the accents of her voice, her gestures, and other signs, discovered to the experienced intelligence of Don Estevan that she really loved Tiburcio, though herself not yet aware of the extent of that love.For Tiburcio knowing the secret of the Golden Valley, Don Estevan cared little—that was a matter of secondary importance; but Tiburcio’s love reciprocated by Doña Rosarita was a very different affair. This at once presented a series of obstacles to the ambitious projects of the Spaniard. Tiburcio then must be got out of the way at all hazards, and at any price. Such are the terrible exigencies of ambition.It only remained to adopt some plan; but the Spaniard was not then in the spirit to think of one. He was writhing at the inadvertence that had just happened.“The clumsy fool!” he muttered, but loud enough for his companion to hear him.“Is it of me your excellency is speaking?” inquired Cuchillo, in a tone that savoured strongly of his usual impudence.“Who else could I mean, you sot? You who neither know how to use strength or stratagem! A woman has accomplished what you could not do! I have told you that this child is a giant to you; and had it not been for me—”“Had it not been for you,” interrupted the outlaw, “this young fellow would not now have been living to trouble us.”“How sir?” demanded Don Estevan.“Last night, as I was bringing him to your bivouac, the fellow did an outrage to my honour, and actually threatened me. I was about putting an end to our differences by a shot from my carbine, when your precious old fool of a servant, Benito, came galloping up, and of course I had to renounce my design. So you see, the only good action I have ever done, has brought me to grief. Such is the reward of our virtue!”“Speak for yourself, my droll fellow!” said the Spaniard, whose pride revolted at being thus classed with such company as the outlaw. “But if that could be outraged which does not exist, may I ask what attempt this young man made upon your honour?”“I do not know myself—it was something that happened with my horse, who has the fault—”Cuchillo interrupted himself as one who has made an imprudent speech.“The fault of stumbling in the left fore-leg?” added Don Estevan. “I see—this old history of the murder of Arellanos.”“I did not murder him,” cried the outlaw, impudently. “I had reasons not to like him; but I pardoned him, for all that.”“Oh! you are so magnanimous! But come, an end to these pleasantries. It remains for you to get this young man out of the way. I have my reasons for wishing it so—among others, he knows our secret. I gave you a halfonzato save his life. To-day I have different views regarding him; and I promise to give you twentyonzaswhen I am assured that he is no longer alive.”“Agreed, Don Estevan; and in to-morrow’s hunt of these wild horses, it will be strange if Tiburcio Arellanos don’t knock his brains out against either a rock or the trunk of a tree, or at least get himself into some corner, where he won’t be able to find his way out again. The only regret I have is, that I shall have to share these twenty onzas with my friends, Baraja and Oroche.”“To-morrow!” exclaimed Don Estevan; “and who knows but that to-morrow may be too late? Is the night not better for your purpose? Are you not three to one? Who is to assure you that to-morrow I may not change my mind?”This threat seriously alarmed Cuchillo.“Carramba! your excellency is quick to decide; you are not one of those who leave for to-morrow what should be done to-day.Pues—then—I shall try my best. In fact, it is very quiet here—I wonder the cries of this young woman have not startled the whole house. There’s not a creature about.”Such was in reality the case. Notwithstanding the noise of the struggle between Tiburcio and his assailants, and later still, the cries of Rosarita, no one had been awakened. The vast extent of the building prevented these sounds from being heard, particularly as all the domestics of the hacienda, as well as the proprietor himself, were buried in a profound slumber.Cuchillo now directed himself toward the apartment where he had left his comrades; Don Estevan returning at the same time to his own chamber. The moon once more poured her soft, silvery light upon the grove of oranges, as if no crime had ever been attempted in that tranquil spot.Don Estevan did not go to rest; but for a long time paced to and fro across his ample chamber, with the air of one accustomed to watch over ambitious projects while others were asleep.After a lapse of time, Cuchillo was heard knocking softly at his door; and as soon as it was opened, the hired assassin stepped in. His confused looks caused Don Estevan to tremble. Was the deed already done? He wished it, yet feared to ask the question. Cuchillo relieved him from his embarrassment by speaking first.“My twenty onzas are gone to the devil!” said he, in a lugubrious tone.“How?” hastily inquired Don Estevan.“The bird has flown: the young man is no longer about the place.”“Gone!” exclaimed Don Estevan. “And you have let him escape?”“How could I hinder him? This brute, Baraja, as well as Oroche, were both drunk with mezcal; and Diaz refused to assist me, point-blank. While I was endeavouring to arouse the other two, the fellow had taken leg bail through an opening in the wall of the garden—at least that’s all we can make out.”“And how have you arrived at this conjecture?” asked Don Estevan, angrily striking the floor with his foot.“Why, when we arrived at the place, the Doña Rosarita was clinging over the wall, no doubt guided there by Tiburcio. He could not be far off at the time, for she was still calling upon him to return; and judging by the love-speeches she was making, she must have earnestly desired it.”“She loves him, then?”“Passionately—or her words and her accents are all deceit. ‘Come back!’ she cried, ‘Tiburcio, come back!I love only you!’ These were the last words I heard; for shortly after she left the wall, and went back to her room.”“We must to horse and pursue him!” cried Don Estevan, hurrying to make ready; “yes, there is no help for it now. The success of our expedition depends upon the life of this ragged fellow. Go! arouse Benito and the others. Tell them to saddle the horses. Warn your friends in the chamber that we must been routein an hour. Away! while I awake Don Augustin and the Senator.”“Just as I have known him for twenty years,” muttered Cuchillo, as he hastened to his companions, “always awake, always ready for the greatest obstacles. Well, if with his character he has not made way in his own country, I fear that in Europe perseverance and energy are not worth much.”Don Estevan, as soon as Cuchillo had left him, spent a few minutes in putting himself once more in travelling costume, and then repaired to the chamber of the Senator. He found the door open—as is the custom in a country where people spend most of their lives outside their houses. The moon was beaming full through the large window, and her light illumined the chamber as well as the couch upon which the Senator was sleeping.“What is it, Don Estevan?” cried the Senator, suddenly leaping up in his bed; “Señor Estevan, I should say.” Tragaduros had been dreaming of the court of the King of Spain. “What is it, your grace?”“I come to take leave of you, and to give you my final instructions.”“Eh! what?” said the Senator. “Is the hour late? or have I been three days asleep?”“No,” gravely replied the Spaniard, “but there is a serious danger that menaces our projects—both yours and mine. This young rustic, whom we found on the road, knows all about the Golden Valley; and what is still worse, he loves Doña Rosarita, and Doña Rosarita loves him.”Tragaduros, instead of starting up at this announcement, sank back upon his pillow, crying out.“Adieu then to the million dollars of dowry! adieu to those beautiful plains covered with horses and cattle, which I already believed my own! adieu to the honours of the court ofCarlos el Primero!”“Come! all is not yet lost,” said Don Estevan. “The evil may be remedied if taken in time. This young fellow has quitted the hacienda. It will be necessary to follow and find him before he gets out of the way. So much the worse for him, if his evil star is in opposition to yours.”The Spaniard said no more of his designs with regard to Tiburcio. As to the Senator, it was of little importance to him how he was to be disembarrassed of so dangerous a rival, so long as he himself should not be troubled with the matter.“Whatever may be the end of it,” added Don Estevan, “one thing is certain—the young fellow will never be allowed to come back to this house, for I shall arrange that with Don Augustin. You will therefore be master of the situation, and will have everything your own way. Make the young lady love you—it will be easy enough—your rival will be absent, he may bedead—for these deserts are dangerous, and you know the old proverb about absence?”“I shall make myself irresistible!” said the Senator, “for since yesterday I feel as if I was on fire about this lovely creature, who appears to have come down direct from heaven—and with—such a dowry!”“No man ever aimed at an object more desirable than this immense dowry and this fair flower of the desert. Spare no pains, therefore, to win both the lady and the fortune.”“If necessary I shall spin for her, as Hercules at the feet of Omphalé.”“Ha, ha ha!” laughed the Spaniard. “If Hercules had any merits in the eyes of Omphalé, it was not on account of his spinning, but because he was Hercules. No—do better than spin. To-morrow Don Augustin has a hunt among his wild steeds; there will be an opportunity for you to distinguish yourself by some daring exploit. Mount one of the wildest of the horses, for the honour of the beautiful eyes of Rosarita, and after having tamed him, ride him up panting into her presence. That will gain you more grace than handling the thread and distaffà la Hercules.”The Senator responded to these counsels with a sigh: and Don Estevan, having given him further instructions as to how he was to act during the absence of the expedition, took leave of him, and repaired to the chamber of Don Augustin.The clank of his heavy spurs, as he entered the sleeping apartment of the haciendado, awoke the latter—who on opening his eyes and seeing his nocturnal visitor in full riding-costume, cried out:“What! is it time to set forth upon the chase? I did not know the hour was so late!”“No, Don Augustin,” replied the Spaniard, “but for me the hour has come to set forth upon a more serious pursuit than that of wild horses. I hasten to pursue the enemy of your house—the man who has abused your hospitality, and who if not captured, may bring ruin upon all our projects.”“The enemy of my house! the man who has abused my hospitality!” cried the haciendado, starting up in astonishment, and seizing a long Toledo rapier that hung by the side of his bed, “Who is the man that has acted so, Don Estevan?”“Be calm!” said Don Estevan, smiling inwardly at the contrast exhibited between the spirit of the haciendado and the pusillanimity of the Senator. “Be calm! the enemy I speak of is no longer under your roof—he has fled beyond the reach of your just vengeance.”“But who is he?” impatiently demanded Don Augustin.“Tiburcio Arellanos.”“What! Tiburcio Arellanos my enemy! I do not believe it. Loyalty and courage are the characteristics of the young man. I shall never believe him a traitor.”“He knows the situation of the Golden Valley! Furthermore, he loves your daughter!”“Is that all? Why, I was aware of these facts already!”“Yes, but your daughter loves him—perhaps you were not aware of that fact?”Don Estevan here detailed the events that had just transpired, and which proved that the passion of the young gambusino was reciprocated by Rosarita.“Well!” calmly rejoined Don Augustin; “so much the worse for the Senator!”This reply could not fail to astonish the Spaniard, and create a feeling of disappointment.“Remember,” said he, “remember, Don Augustin Peña; that you have engaged your word—not only to me, not only to Tragaduros, but to a prince of the blood royal of Spain, from whose brow this apparently simple incident—the caprice of a young girl—may snatch a crown. Think too of your country—its future glory and greatness—all dependent on the promise you have given—”“Why,” interrupted Don Augustin, “why set forth all these considerations? After my promise has been given, I never retract my word. But it is only to the Duke de Armada I have engaged myself, and he alone can free me from that engagement. Are you satisfied with this assurance?”“How could I be otherwise?” cried the Spaniard, holding out his hand to the noble haciendado. “Enough! I have your word, it will be necessary forme to leave you without farther delay. This young fellow may find comrades to accompany him to the Golden Valley. There is not a moment, therefore, to be lost. I must at once proceed to Tubac. Adieu, my friend, adieu!”Don Augustin would have risen to accompany his guest to the gates, but the Spaniard would not permit him, and they parted without farther ceremony.When Don Estevan reached the court-yard, his attendants and domestics were found in readiness to depart. The mules had been packed, and theremudacollected in charge of the driver. The followers, Cuchillo, Baraja, Oroche, and Pedro Diaz were already in their saddles—the last mounted on a magnificent and fiery steed, which told that the generous haciendado had kept his promise.

Don Estevan and Cuchillo, on leaving the ground of the combat, returned to the alley of granadines; but for some time not a word passed between them. Don Estevan was buried in a profound meditation. More skilled than his coarse companion in the mysteries of the female heart, he had divined, before the end of the dialogue between Rosarita and Tiburcio, that the young girl felt for the latter a tender sentiment. It was true it was just germinating in her soul; but the accents of her voice, her gestures, and other signs, discovered to the experienced intelligence of Don Estevan that she really loved Tiburcio, though herself not yet aware of the extent of that love.

For Tiburcio knowing the secret of the Golden Valley, Don Estevan cared little—that was a matter of secondary importance; but Tiburcio’s love reciprocated by Doña Rosarita was a very different affair. This at once presented a series of obstacles to the ambitious projects of the Spaniard. Tiburcio then must be got out of the way at all hazards, and at any price. Such are the terrible exigencies of ambition.

It only remained to adopt some plan; but the Spaniard was not then in the spirit to think of one. He was writhing at the inadvertence that had just happened.

“The clumsy fool!” he muttered, but loud enough for his companion to hear him.

“Is it of me your excellency is speaking?” inquired Cuchillo, in a tone that savoured strongly of his usual impudence.

“Who else could I mean, you sot? You who neither know how to use strength or stratagem! A woman has accomplished what you could not do! I have told you that this child is a giant to you; and had it not been for me—”

“Had it not been for you,” interrupted the outlaw, “this young fellow would not now have been living to trouble us.”

“How sir?” demanded Don Estevan.

“Last night, as I was bringing him to your bivouac, the fellow did an outrage to my honour, and actually threatened me. I was about putting an end to our differences by a shot from my carbine, when your precious old fool of a servant, Benito, came galloping up, and of course I had to renounce my design. So you see, the only good action I have ever done, has brought me to grief. Such is the reward of our virtue!”

“Speak for yourself, my droll fellow!” said the Spaniard, whose pride revolted at being thus classed with such company as the outlaw. “But if that could be outraged which does not exist, may I ask what attempt this young man made upon your honour?”

“I do not know myself—it was something that happened with my horse, who has the fault—”

Cuchillo interrupted himself as one who has made an imprudent speech.

“The fault of stumbling in the left fore-leg?” added Don Estevan. “I see—this old history of the murder of Arellanos.”

“I did not murder him,” cried the outlaw, impudently. “I had reasons not to like him; but I pardoned him, for all that.”

“Oh! you are so magnanimous! But come, an end to these pleasantries. It remains for you to get this young man out of the way. I have my reasons for wishing it so—among others, he knows our secret. I gave you a halfonzato save his life. To-day I have different views regarding him; and I promise to give you twentyonzaswhen I am assured that he is no longer alive.”

“Agreed, Don Estevan; and in to-morrow’s hunt of these wild horses, it will be strange if Tiburcio Arellanos don’t knock his brains out against either a rock or the trunk of a tree, or at least get himself into some corner, where he won’t be able to find his way out again. The only regret I have is, that I shall have to share these twenty onzas with my friends, Baraja and Oroche.”

“To-morrow!” exclaimed Don Estevan; “and who knows but that to-morrow may be too late? Is the night not better for your purpose? Are you not three to one? Who is to assure you that to-morrow I may not change my mind?”

This threat seriously alarmed Cuchillo.

“Carramba! your excellency is quick to decide; you are not one of those who leave for to-morrow what should be done to-day.Pues—then—I shall try my best. In fact, it is very quiet here—I wonder the cries of this young woman have not startled the whole house. There’s not a creature about.”

Such was in reality the case. Notwithstanding the noise of the struggle between Tiburcio and his assailants, and later still, the cries of Rosarita, no one had been awakened. The vast extent of the building prevented these sounds from being heard, particularly as all the domestics of the hacienda, as well as the proprietor himself, were buried in a profound slumber.

Cuchillo now directed himself toward the apartment where he had left his comrades; Don Estevan returning at the same time to his own chamber. The moon once more poured her soft, silvery light upon the grove of oranges, as if no crime had ever been attempted in that tranquil spot.

Don Estevan did not go to rest; but for a long time paced to and fro across his ample chamber, with the air of one accustomed to watch over ambitious projects while others were asleep.

After a lapse of time, Cuchillo was heard knocking softly at his door; and as soon as it was opened, the hired assassin stepped in. His confused looks caused Don Estevan to tremble. Was the deed already done? He wished it, yet feared to ask the question. Cuchillo relieved him from his embarrassment by speaking first.

“My twenty onzas are gone to the devil!” said he, in a lugubrious tone.

“How?” hastily inquired Don Estevan.

“The bird has flown: the young man is no longer about the place.”

“Gone!” exclaimed Don Estevan. “And you have let him escape?”

“How could I hinder him? This brute, Baraja, as well as Oroche, were both drunk with mezcal; and Diaz refused to assist me, point-blank. While I was endeavouring to arouse the other two, the fellow had taken leg bail through an opening in the wall of the garden—at least that’s all we can make out.”

“And how have you arrived at this conjecture?” asked Don Estevan, angrily striking the floor with his foot.

“Why, when we arrived at the place, the Doña Rosarita was clinging over the wall, no doubt guided there by Tiburcio. He could not be far off at the time, for she was still calling upon him to return; and judging by the love-speeches she was making, she must have earnestly desired it.”

“She loves him, then?”

“Passionately—or her words and her accents are all deceit. ‘Come back!’ she cried, ‘Tiburcio, come back!I love only you!’ These were the last words I heard; for shortly after she left the wall, and went back to her room.”

“We must to horse and pursue him!” cried Don Estevan, hurrying to make ready; “yes, there is no help for it now. The success of our expedition depends upon the life of this ragged fellow. Go! arouse Benito and the others. Tell them to saddle the horses. Warn your friends in the chamber that we must been routein an hour. Away! while I awake Don Augustin and the Senator.”

“Just as I have known him for twenty years,” muttered Cuchillo, as he hastened to his companions, “always awake, always ready for the greatest obstacles. Well, if with his character he has not made way in his own country, I fear that in Europe perseverance and energy are not worth much.”

Don Estevan, as soon as Cuchillo had left him, spent a few minutes in putting himself once more in travelling costume, and then repaired to the chamber of the Senator. He found the door open—as is the custom in a country where people spend most of their lives outside their houses. The moon was beaming full through the large window, and her light illumined the chamber as well as the couch upon which the Senator was sleeping.

“What is it, Don Estevan?” cried the Senator, suddenly leaping up in his bed; “Señor Estevan, I should say.” Tragaduros had been dreaming of the court of the King of Spain. “What is it, your grace?”

“I come to take leave of you, and to give you my final instructions.”

“Eh! what?” said the Senator. “Is the hour late? or have I been three days asleep?”

“No,” gravely replied the Spaniard, “but there is a serious danger that menaces our projects—both yours and mine. This young rustic, whom we found on the road, knows all about the Golden Valley; and what is still worse, he loves Doña Rosarita, and Doña Rosarita loves him.”

Tragaduros, instead of starting up at this announcement, sank back upon his pillow, crying out.

“Adieu then to the million dollars of dowry! adieu to those beautiful plains covered with horses and cattle, which I already believed my own! adieu to the honours of the court ofCarlos el Primero!”

“Come! all is not yet lost,” said Don Estevan. “The evil may be remedied if taken in time. This young fellow has quitted the hacienda. It will be necessary to follow and find him before he gets out of the way. So much the worse for him, if his evil star is in opposition to yours.”

The Spaniard said no more of his designs with regard to Tiburcio. As to the Senator, it was of little importance to him how he was to be disembarrassed of so dangerous a rival, so long as he himself should not be troubled with the matter.

“Whatever may be the end of it,” added Don Estevan, “one thing is certain—the young fellow will never be allowed to come back to this house, for I shall arrange that with Don Augustin. You will therefore be master of the situation, and will have everything your own way. Make the young lady love you—it will be easy enough—your rival will be absent, he may bedead—for these deserts are dangerous, and you know the old proverb about absence?”

“I shall make myself irresistible!” said the Senator, “for since yesterday I feel as if I was on fire about this lovely creature, who appears to have come down direct from heaven—and with—such a dowry!”

“No man ever aimed at an object more desirable than this immense dowry and this fair flower of the desert. Spare no pains, therefore, to win both the lady and the fortune.”

“If necessary I shall spin for her, as Hercules at the feet of Omphalé.”

“Ha, ha ha!” laughed the Spaniard. “If Hercules had any merits in the eyes of Omphalé, it was not on account of his spinning, but because he was Hercules. No—do better than spin. To-morrow Don Augustin has a hunt among his wild steeds; there will be an opportunity for you to distinguish yourself by some daring exploit. Mount one of the wildest of the horses, for the honour of the beautiful eyes of Rosarita, and after having tamed him, ride him up panting into her presence. That will gain you more grace than handling the thread and distaffà la Hercules.”

The Senator responded to these counsels with a sigh: and Don Estevan, having given him further instructions as to how he was to act during the absence of the expedition, took leave of him, and repaired to the chamber of Don Augustin.

The clank of his heavy spurs, as he entered the sleeping apartment of the haciendado, awoke the latter—who on opening his eyes and seeing his nocturnal visitor in full riding-costume, cried out:

“What! is it time to set forth upon the chase? I did not know the hour was so late!”

“No, Don Augustin,” replied the Spaniard, “but for me the hour has come to set forth upon a more serious pursuit than that of wild horses. I hasten to pursue the enemy of your house—the man who has abused your hospitality, and who if not captured, may bring ruin upon all our projects.”

“The enemy of my house! the man who has abused my hospitality!” cried the haciendado, starting up in astonishment, and seizing a long Toledo rapier that hung by the side of his bed, “Who is the man that has acted so, Don Estevan?”

“Be calm!” said Don Estevan, smiling inwardly at the contrast exhibited between the spirit of the haciendado and the pusillanimity of the Senator. “Be calm! the enemy I speak of is no longer under your roof—he has fled beyond the reach of your just vengeance.”

“But who is he?” impatiently demanded Don Augustin.

“Tiburcio Arellanos.”

“What! Tiburcio Arellanos my enemy! I do not believe it. Loyalty and courage are the characteristics of the young man. I shall never believe him a traitor.”

“He knows the situation of the Golden Valley! Furthermore, he loves your daughter!”

“Is that all? Why, I was aware of these facts already!”

“Yes, but your daughter loves him—perhaps you were not aware of that fact?”

Don Estevan here detailed the events that had just transpired, and which proved that the passion of the young gambusino was reciprocated by Rosarita.

“Well!” calmly rejoined Don Augustin; “so much the worse for the Senator!”

This reply could not fail to astonish the Spaniard, and create a feeling of disappointment.

“Remember,” said he, “remember, Don Augustin Peña; that you have engaged your word—not only to me, not only to Tragaduros, but to a prince of the blood royal of Spain, from whose brow this apparently simple incident—the caprice of a young girl—may snatch a crown. Think too of your country—its future glory and greatness—all dependent on the promise you have given—”

“Why,” interrupted Don Augustin, “why set forth all these considerations? After my promise has been given, I never retract my word. But it is only to the Duke de Armada I have engaged myself, and he alone can free me from that engagement. Are you satisfied with this assurance?”

“How could I be otherwise?” cried the Spaniard, holding out his hand to the noble haciendado. “Enough! I have your word, it will be necessary forme to leave you without farther delay. This young fellow may find comrades to accompany him to the Golden Valley. There is not a moment, therefore, to be lost. I must at once proceed to Tubac. Adieu, my friend, adieu!”

Don Augustin would have risen to accompany his guest to the gates, but the Spaniard would not permit him, and they parted without farther ceremony.

When Don Estevan reached the court-yard, his attendants and domestics were found in readiness to depart. The mules had been packed, and theremudacollected in charge of the driver. The followers, Cuchillo, Baraja, Oroche, and Pedro Diaz were already in their saddles—the last mounted on a magnificent and fiery steed, which told that the generous haciendado had kept his promise.

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