"You will, you will!" interposes Cypriano, in tones of earnest appeal.

"Yes, dear Nacena," follows Ludwig, in tenderer tones; "I'm sure you will. Remember, she is my sister, and that you yourself have a brother!"

Had they but known it, there was no need for all this petitioning. Even while Gaspar was speaking, and long before he had finished, the Indian girl, with the quick, subtle instinct of her race, divined what they were aiming at—the very end she herself desires, and might have proposed to them. The same instinct, however, prompts her to feign ignorance of it, as evinced by her interrogative rejoinder:—

"How can Nacena assist you? In what way?"

"By helping us to get the paleface out of her prison." It is Gaspar who speaks. "She is imprisoned, is she not?"

"She is."

"And where is she kept?" further questions the gaucho.

Cypriano trembles as he listens for the answer. He fears, half expecting it to be, "In the toldo of the cacique."

It is a relief to him, when Nacena, pointing towards the dark object bound to the scaffold-post, says: "She has charge of the paleface captive."

"Bueno!" ejaculates Gaspar with delight in his eyes, as in those of Cypriano. "Nothing could be better than that. And now that we have Shebotha here, no one will be guarding the prisoner—will there?"

"Alas, yes!" responds the Indian girl, her words with their tone telling that she has entered into the spirit of their enterprise.

"Who?" interrogates Gaspar. "What is he—if it be a man?"

"Yes, a man. A white man, like yourselves; one who has been long with our tribe—a captive taken many years ago from some of the countries south. He is Shebotha's own slave, and watches over the paleface when she is out of the toldo."

Again the gaucho ejaculates, "Bueno!" adding, in sotto voce, to his two companions, "It seems better still; a bit of rare good luck; that is, if this white man, whoever he be, isn't grown Indianised, as I've known some to be." Then to the girl. "Shebotha's slave, you say? In that case, he should be wanting to regain his liberty, and we may give him the chance. If need be, we can take him along, too. You understand, Nacena?"

"I do."

"Then you agree to assist us?"

"Say yes!" urges Cypriano.

"My sister, Nacena!" adds Ludwig.

In response to their united appeals, she points to the sorceress, saying—

"Her vengeance is to be dreaded. If I do as you wish me, Shebotha—"

"Won't hurt a hair of your head," says Gaspar, interrupting. "Nor can't. She'll not be near enough to do you any injury. That worthy woman is on the eve of a long journey, to be made in our company, if you agree to assist us in getting the paleface away. You do agree to it, amiga mia?"

The girl fully comprehending, and relieved at the thought of the dreaded sorceress being taken out of the way, at length not only signifies assent to their scheme, but embraces it with alacrity. Its success will be to her advantage as theirs, ridding her of that rival feared, and it may be, restoring to her the affections of him on whom she has fixed her own.

And now that confidence is established between her and her captors, she gives them a full account of how things stand in the tolderia, and the place where the captive is confined. Having heard which, Gaspar counsels her how to act, as a last word, saying—

"Tell this white man, who has charge of the nina, he need no longer be a prisoner himself, nor Shebotha's slave. Say to him, that men of his own race and colour are near, ready to rescue and take him back to his people, wherever they may be. Surely that will be enough to gain him to our side, and get his help also."

Nacena hesitates for a time; then answering, says—

"No, not enough, I fear."

"But why?"

"The white man is not in his senses. He has lost them long ago. The little left him is given to Shebotha. He fears her, as all our people do; but he more than any. She has surely left him with commands to keep a close watch. He does not disobey her; and it may be impossible for me to speak with the paleface, much more get her away from him."

"Caspita!" exclaims Gaspar, his countenance again turning grave. "There will be a difficulty there, I see it; if the man's crazed, as you say he is, Nacena. You think he won't let you speak with the prisoner, unless you have permission from Shebotha?"

"He will not—I am sure he will not."

"In that case all may be idle, and our scheme go for nought. Por Dios! what's to be done?"

Pressing his head between his hands, the gaucho stands considering, while the other three in silence await the result. His deliberation is not for long; a bright idea has flashed across his brain, and with his countenance also recovering brightness, he exclaims—

"Gracios a Dios! I know how it can be managed; I think I know."

Ludwig and Cypriano have it on their tongues to inquire what he means. But before either can say a word, he is off and away in a rush toward the scaffold-post to which Shebotha is tied.

Reaching it, he is seen with arms outstretched and in rapid play, as though he were setting her free. Far from that, however, is his intention. He but undoes the knot around her neck, and raising the poncho, clutches at something which encircles her throat. He had noticed this something while throttling her when first caught; it had rattled between his fingers as the beads of a rosary, and he knew it to be such, with a slight difference—the beads being human teeth! A remembrance, moreover, admonishes him that this ghastly necklace was worn by the sorceress, not for adornment, but to inspire dread. It is, in fact, one of her weapons of weird mystery and power, and an idea has occurred to him that it may now be used as an instrument against herself.

Having detached it from her neck, and replaced the poncho upon her head, he returns to where he had left the others, and holding out the string of teeth, says to Nacena—

"Take this. Present it to the crazy paleface; tell him Shebotha sent it as a token authorising you to act for her; and, if he be not altogether out of his wits, I warrant it'll get you admission to the presence of the paleface. For anything beyond, you will best know how to act of yourself."

The girl grasps the hideous symbol, a gleam of intelligence lighting up her swarth but beautiful face. For she, too, anticipates the effect it will have on Shebotha's slave, from actual knowledge—not by guessing, as with Gaspar.

Knowing herself now at liberty and free to depart, without saying another word, she turns her back upon them; and gliding away with the agile, stealthy step peculiar to her race, soon passes beyond their sight.

They stand looking after her, till her dark figure disappears amid the shadows of the scaffolds. But they have no doubt of her fidelity—no fear that she will fail to do what she can for the fulfilment of her promise. The keeping it is secured by her own interested motives: for the passion impelling her to act on their behalf, though purely selfish, can be trusted as truth itself.



CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

A DELUDED JAILER.

Midnight's hour is past, the moon has gone down, and in the Indian town there is darkness and silence. Every one is asleep, or seems to be; since no light shines either in toldo or tent, neither can a human figure be seen in the streets, or anywhere around.

At some distance from the houses, however, among thickly-standing trees, and close into the base of the hill, is the quaint dwelling-place of Shebotha—half cave, half hut—and inside this flickers a faint light, from a dip candle of crude beeswax, with a wick of the fibre of the pita plant. By its red flame, mingled with much smoke, a collection of curious objects is dimly discernible; not articles of furniture, for these are few, but things appertaining to the craft in which Shebotha is supposed to have skill—demonology. There are the bones and skins of monkeys, with those of snakes, lizards, and other reptiles; teeth of the alligator and jaguar; the proboscis-like snouts of the tapir and tamanoir, or great ant-bear, with a variety of other like oddities, furnished by the indigenous creatures of the Chaco in every department of the zoological world—birds, quadrupeds, insects, reptiles, and fishes.

This motley conglomeration is for the most part arranged against the inner wall of the hut, and opposite the entrance, so as to be observable by any one looking in at the door, or even passing by it. For its purpose is to impress the superstitious victims of Shebotha's craft with a belief in her witching ways. And to give this a more terrifying and supernatural character, a human skull, representing a death's head, with a pair of tibia for crossbones underneath, is fixed centrally and prominently against the wall.

The same light that so faintly illuminates this paraphernalia of repulsive objects, also shines upon one that is pleasing—this the figure of a young girl, with a face wonderfully fair. For she is Francesca Halberger.

At the hour spoken of she is the sole occupant of the hut; its owner, Shebotha, being abroad. For it is the self-same hour and instant when the sorceress has the rosary of teeth snatched so rudely from her neck. She is seated on the edge of a catre, or cane bedstead, of the pallet kind, her head buried in her hands, through the white fingers of which her long golden tresses fall in rich profusion, scattered over and mingling with the fur of the great pampas wolf which serves as a sort of mattress for the bed.

The candle has burnt down into the socket of its rude stick, but at intervals flares up, with a crackling, sputtering noise; as it it does so, showing upon her features that same sad look as when she was being carried hither, a captive; only that her face is now paler, and the expression upon it telling of a despair deeper and more settled. She has slept but little from the day of her entrance under Shebotha's roof, and no great deal since she last lay on her own bed at home. What sleep she now gets is only in short snatches; when tired nature can no longer continue the struggle with thoughts all the while torturing her. No wonder at sweet slumber being thus long denied her, with such memories to keep her awake! In fancy, ever before her seems the face of her father with that look of agony she last saw upon it, as he lay upon the ground, weltering in his gore. And in fancy also, she beholds the ruffian, Valdez, standing above the prostrate form, waving over it his blood-stained spear, a very demon exultant!

But her painful thoughts are not all of the past. She has doubts and fears also for the future, dark as she reflects on her own situation, and what will be done to her; but still darker when she thinks of those left behind and far away. What will become of her dear mother and brother? What of him—dear, ah! perhaps dearer than either—her handsome cousin? For Cypriano's affection for her is fully reciprocated.

Not strange then the sadness overspreading her features, nor the weight of woe in her heart; as she dwells on the fate that may be his and theirs. For she knows they are all in danger—great and certain danger; has known it ever since seeing Valdez, the vaqueano, consorting with the Tovas Indians, and on friendly terms with their chief. Oft had she asked herself the question whither he went afterwards! Did he return to Paraguay, or go direct to the estancia, there to complete his diabolical work—begun by murder, to end in the same with other crimes? In any case he would not likely leave them unharmed, as the captive girl too truly apprehends.

With such terrible thoughts to agitate her breast, no wonder she should be awake while everyone around seems slumbering. But on this night, and at this hour, something besides hinders her from seeking repose; that being the absence of Shebotha, which, for certain reasons, makes her more than ordinarily apprehensive. In truth, she is greatly alarmed by it. Never before has the sorceress been out of her toldo to stay for any continued time; above all, never during the hours of night. Why should she be absent now, and so long?

While asking herself these questions, the captive has not the slightest intention to take advantage of Shebotha's absence, and make trial to escape. Well knows she that would be idle, and she could not get away if she tried. For though the owner of the hut is off watch, there is one on it—a man sitting, or squatted, just outside the door. No red man, but one with a white skin; himself a prisoner, and who possibly once, as she, felt distressed by his captivity. It may have been this very feeling which has made him what he now is—a witless idiot, resigned to his fate. In any case, he seems to be contented as Shebotha's slave; and, perhaps ignorant of there being any better, serves her with a fidelity worthy of a better mistress. No watch-dog at that toldo's door were more to be trusted than he.

She inside has no intention, nor ever had, of tempting him to be untrue to his trust. Even could he be induced to let her pass out, what purpose would it serve? She could not make her way home; and he is not the sort of man to see her safe through more than two hundred miles of wilderness. The idea is too hopeless to be entertained, and she does not for an instant entertain it.

The thoughts that now occupy her mind are not of how she may escape from her captivity, but dwelling upon a theme altogether different. She is thinking who will be the next one to darken the door of the hut; fearing it may be neither Shebotha herself, nor yet her slave, but the man who is master of both—Aguara!

True, the young cacique has not as yet offered her either outrage or insult; instead still approaches her with courtesy, and a pretence of friendship. For all, something—it may be instinct—admonishes her that he is acting under a mask, which he may at any moment cast aside, revealing the monster, as she believes him to be. And with sufficient reason, recalling that tragedy which deprived her of a father; and sure, despite all his protestations, that Aguara played a willing part in it.

While thus apprehensively reflecting, she hears footsteps, as of some one approaching the place. The sound causes her to start to her feet, and stand listening, with a heightened expression of fear upon her face. For, although the footfall is distant, and only distinguishable as such by the rustle it makes among the dead leaves, she can tell it is not that of Shebotha, with whose halting gait and shuffling step her ear has grown familiar. Whose, then? Who would be coming to the hut at that time of night—now morning—save Shebotha herself? None but she, and those of her belonging, dare do so either by night or by day? For the toldo of the sorceress is a sort of sanctuary, tabooed to the people of the tribe, and no one may enter or approach its sacred precincts, without having her permission, or being bidden by her. Yes; one may, and can—Aguara.

Still darker shows the fear upon the face of the captive girl, as she thinks of this special privilege accorded to the cacique, of which she has been made aware. It must be he who is drawing near, and with him a danger she has long vaguely apprehended.

For some seconds she remains intently listening, her young heart pulsing audibly within her breast. It beats easier as the footfall draws nigher, and she can tell it is not that of a man. The tread is too light and elastic. It cannot be Aguara who approaches.

She is still surer of its not being he, as the footsteps, having come close up to the hut, cease to be heard, and in their place a different sound enters through the open door—a feminine voice speaking in soft, dulcet tones.

The speech is not addressed to the captive herself, but to him who watches outside. After an interchange of ordinary salutation, and an inquiry by the watcher as to what is wanted—this evidently in tone of surprise—the soft voice responds, "I want to speak with the little pale free."

"You cannot. Shebotha forbids it. No one may enter here without her permission."

"But I have more than her permission—her commands. She has sent me with a message to the paleface. At this moment Mam Shebotha has a matter elsewhere, and could not come herself."

"You may be speaking the truth, but how am I to know?" questions the man, as he regards the intruder with an incredulous stare. "I don't go so far as to say you are telling a lie. All I say is, that the thing isn't at all likely. Mam Shebotha's not the sort to trust her affairs to such a chiquitita as you."

"You know me, don't you?"

"Oh, yes; you are Kaolin's sister—her they call the belle of the tribe; your name's Nacena."

"It is so; and surely you'll believe me? The sister of Kaolin would not speak false. You cannot suppose I am deceiving you?"

"Ah!" he rejoins, with his words heaving a sigh, "it is often those who are most beautiful who most deceive."

Possibly the memory of some such deception, an experience of times long past, has been awakened within him. It embitters his speech as he continues—

"I can't—I won't believe you—though you are Kaolin's sister, and ever so fair to look upon."

"But you will, when you look upon this."

She draws out the string of teeth snatched from the neck of the sorceress, and holds it up to his eyes, adding—

"That I bring from Shebotha herself. She gave it me to show you as a sign that I have her permission to speak with the paleface—nay, her command, as I've said. Now!"

At sight of the hideous symbol, which he instantly recognises, his incredulity is at an end. For he knows how jealously the sorceress guards this token, and that no one could have obtained it from her without some special purpose, or to do a service to herself. What it may be he questions not, nor longer forbids entrance to the hut, but nods towards the door, as much as to say—

"You can go in."



CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR.

AN UNLOOKED-FOR DELIVERER.

Though the dialogue between Nacena and Shebotha's slave was in the Tovas tongue, she who has overheard them inside the hut has sufficient acquaintance with it to make out that the Indian girl is seeking an interview with herself. But for what purpose, she has not the most distant idea, and cannot conceive why it should specially be sought at that strange hour, when everybody else is abed. She knows Nacena by name, as by sight; having on many occasions seen her at the old tolderia. But the two have never had acquaintance, nor held conversation; the sister of Kaolin always seeming shy with her, and never visiting the estancia, as did the other girls of the tribe. More than this, she remembers that whenever of late she by chance met the savage maiden, she had observed a scowl upon the latter's face, which she could not help fancying was meant for herself. Nor had her fancy been astray; since in reality for her was that black look. Though for what reason Francesca could not tell, having never that she could think of done aught that should give offence to Kaolin's sister. Besides, was not Kaolin himself the bosom friend of her brother Ludwig? Still, recalling that scowl so often seen upon Nacena's countenance— with a suspicion, purely intuitive, of what may have caused it—not strange she should deem the visit of the Indian girl boding no good to her, but instead something of ill.

As the latter steps inside the toldo, however, and the light falls upon her face, the captive can there see no sign of malice, nor token of hostility. Instead, it is lit up by a smile which seems rather to speak of friendship and protection. And, in truth, such are among the sentiments now moving the Indian girl to action. At the prospect of being for ever rid of a rival she sees so helpless, the feeling of jealousy has passed away out of her heart, as its frown from her face, and she approaches the captive with the air of one who has both the wish and the power to give liberty. She is the first to speak, asking abruptly—

"Do you wish to be free?"

"Why do you ask that?" is the interrogative rejoinder, in a tone distrustful. For that smile may be but to deceive.

"Because Nacena has it in her power to give you freedom if you desire it."

"Desire it!" exclaims the captive. "Nacena is but mocking me," she adds, involuntarily falling into the figurative mode of speech peculiar to the American Indian. "Indeed, I do desire it. But how could Nacena set me at liberty?"

"By taking the paleface to her people."

"They are far away—hundreds of miles. Would Nacena herself take me to them?"

"No. That is not needed. The paleface is mistaken. Her friends are not far away, but near. They wait for her to come out to them."

The captive gives a start of surprise, the light of hope and joy, long absent from her eyes, rekindling in them, as another light breaks upon her.

"Of whom does Nacena speak?"

"Of your brother the fair-haired youth, your cousin the dark Paraguayan, and the gaucho who has guided them hither. All three are close to the tolderia, on the other side of the hill—as I've said, expecting you. Nacena has spoken with them, and promised she will conduct you to where they are. White sister!" she adds, in a tone of unmistakeable sincerity, at the same time drawing closer to the captive, and tenderly taking her by the hand, "do not show distrust, but let Nacena keep her word. She will restore you to your friends, your brother; ah! to one who waits for you with anxiety keener than all!"

At the last words the captive bends upon her would-be deliverer a bewildered, wondering look. Is it possible Nacena has knowledge of her tenderest secret? It must be so; but how can she have learnt it? Surely Cypriano—whom she says she has seen outside and spoken with— surely, he could not have revealed it; would not! Francesca forgets that the Indian girl was for years a near neighbour to her father's estancia; and though never visiting there, with the keen intuition of her race was like enough to have learnt, that the relationship between her cousin and herself had something in it beyond mere cousinly affection.

While she is still cogitating as to how Nacena could have come to this knowledge, and wondering the while, the latter bleaks in upon her wonderment, and once more urges her to flight, again speaking of him who is near and dear, so anxiously expecting her.

It needs not such pressing appeal. For the captive girl, her surprise once past, is but too willing to embrace the opportunity so unexpectedly offered, and by one so unlikely to offer it. Therefore, without further hesitation, she signifies acceptance, saying, "I will trust you, Nacena. You have called me your white sister, and I believe you sincere. You would not speak so if you meant me harm. Take me where you will; I am ready to go with you."

Saying which, she holds out her hand, as if offering to be led.

The Indian girl taking it, turns her face for the door, and is about to step towards it, when she remembers the watcher without; and obstruction she had for the time forgotten. Will he bar their exit? A cloud comes over her brow, as she asks herself the question; for, mentally answering it, she thinks he most probably will.

The other observing her hesitation, and quite comprehending it, makes no inquiry about the cause. That is already declared in the dialogue lately overheard by her; and as he outside is likely to be listening, the two now take counsel together, speaking in whispers.

Nacena, from a better knowledge of the situation, is of course the chief adviser, and it ends in her determining to show a bold front, and pass out as if already armed with Shebotha's permission. If interrupted, they can then make a rush for it. In short, after a hurried consultation, they can think of no other way, much less a better one. For by the shuffling of footsteps, and a wheezing noise—Shebotha's slave being afflicted with asthma—they can tell that he is close by the entrance.

Soon as resolved how to act, the Indian girl, still holding the captive by the hand, leads her on to the door; and, passing over the threshold side by side, they present themselves to the sentry, Nacena saying:

"In going in I forgot to tell you my errand from Mam Shebotha. She bade me bring the paleface to where she is herself. You see, I am taking her."

"You cannot take her out of the toldo," rejoins the man in a tone of dogged denial. "You must not; Shebotha would kill me if I permitted it."

"But I have Shebotha's command to do so."

"How am I to know that?"

"You forget what I have said, and what I've given you."

She points to the strange rosary, which he had taken from her, and still retains—possibly as a voucher against any mistake that may arise.

"No, I don't," he rejoins, holding the string up before her eyes, and shaking it till the teeth rattle. "There it is; but withal, I can't allow her, the paleface, to go with you. It might be as much as my life is worth."

"But what is your life worth without liberty?"

It is not Nacena who puts this question, but the paleface herself; speaking to him in her native tongue, as his. He gives a sudden start on hearing it, and regards the young girl with a stare of astonishment, rubbing his eyes as though just awakened from a long-continued sleep.

"Ah—eh!" he exclaims, excitedly. "What's that? Liberty, did you say? Liberty? Mine's gone long ago. I'm but a poor slave—Shebotha's slave. I can never be free again; no, never!"

"You may be free now—this very moment—if you wish it."

"If I wish it! Ha, ha, ha! That's a good joke! If I wish it! Only show me the way, and let Mam Shebotha go to—"

"Never mind Mam Shebotha. Listen to me, who am of the same race and people as yourself. There are some of them now near, who have come to take me home to my friends. You must have friends too, whom you left long ago. Why should you not go back to them?"

"Carramba!" he cries out, as if the sound of his native tongue had brought back to remembrance one of its most common exclamations, and along with it a desire to return to the place where he last heard it spoken. "Why should I not? If you say you'll take me, I will."

"Ah! I'll not only take you, but be glad of your company. Nos vamos!"

It is still Francesca who speaks, and at the last words, pronounced in a tone of half encouragement, half command, she stretches out her hand, and taking hold of that of her late jailer, leads him off, as a rough pampas colt just tamed and gentled.

Nacena, astonished at the spirit shown by the little paleface, and delighted with a success which may prove advantageous to herself, says not a word; but steps off forward in front of the other two—making mute pantomimic signs to guide them in the direction they are to go.



CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE.

AN UNLUCKY TUMBLE.

Soon as Nacena had started on return to the town, the gaucho and his companions commence making preparations to descend from the hill. Not by the road leading down to the tolderia, but the path by which they came up. For before her parting with them the Indian girl and Gaspar had held further speech; she imparting to him additional information of how things stood in the tribe; he, in turn, giving her more detailed instructions how to act, in the event of her being able to obtain an interview with the paleface captive, and to get her off from the place where confined. In the programme arranged between them, the final part to be played by Nacena would be her conducting her charge round to the other side of the hill, where the rescuers would be in waiting to receive her. Delivered to them, the action of the Indian girl would be at end, so far as that affair was concerned, while theirs had yet to be considered.

The place where they were to await her was, of course, mutually understood—by the entrance to the uphill path, under the great ceiba tree. Nacena knew it well, having oft traversed that path, reclined in the shadow of the tree, and played under it from the earliest days of childhood. For it was a pretty spot, much-frequented by the younger members of the community when out for promenade on the plain, or nutting among the palm-groves that studded it. A sort of rendezvous, or stopping place, from the two routes to the town here diverging; the shorter, though by far the more difficult, being that over the Cemetery Hill. Of the roundabout one, Gaspar, of course, had no knowledge. But he knew the ceiba, and the way back to it, all that they needed. The girl had trodden both, hundreds of times, and was acquainted with their every reach and turning. She would come anyhow, and no fear of her not finding the way; their only fear was of her coming unaccompanied.

Least of all has Ludwig this apprehension; instead, full confidence that the Indian will will bring Francesca back with her. Strange this; but stranger still, that, while overjoyed with the thought of his sister being delivered from captivity, his joy should have a tinge of sadness in it, like a mingling of shadow and sun. This due to his suspicion of the motives actuating her who has promised to be his sister's deliverer. Nacena is not their friend for mere friendship's sake; nor his, because of the former fellowship between him and her own brother. Instead, jealousy is her incentive, and what she is doing, though it be to their benefit, is but done for the thwarting of Aguara.

Though Ludwig has expressed his opinion that they will soon see Francesca, he is silent about these suspicions. There is no time to speak of them if he would. For in a few seconds after Nacena's separating from them, Gaspar gives the signal for action, and all three become engaged in getting ready their horses for a return to the plain.

"Por Dios!" mutters the gaucho, while slipping on his bridle. "I don't much fancy remaining longer in this melancholy place. Though high and airy, it mayn't be wholesome. If, after all, that brown beauty should change her mind, and play us false, we'd be in a bad predicament up here—a regular trap, with no chance of retreating from it. So the sooner we're back to the bottom of the hill, the safer 'twill be. There we'll at least have some help from the speed of our horses, if in the end we have to run for it. Let us get below at once!"

Having by this finished adjusting his bridle, he hands the rein to Cypriano, adding—

"You hold this, senorito, while I go after Shebotha. Botheration take that old hag! She'll be a bother to us, to say nothing of the extra weight for our poor horses. After all, she's not very heavy—only a bag of bones."

"But, Gaspar; are you in earnest about our taking her along with us?" asks Cypriano.

"How are we to help it, hijo mio! If we leave her here, she'd be back in the town before we could get started; that is, if we have the good luck to get started at all. I needn't point out what would be the upshot of that. Pursuit, as a matter of course, pell mell, and immediate. True, we might leave her tied to the post, and muffled as she is. But then she'd be missed by to-morrow morning, if not sooner, and they'd be sure to look for her up here. No likelier place for such as she, among these scaffolds; except tied to a scaffold of another sort, and in a somewhat different style."

The gaucho pauses, partly to enjoy his own jest, at which he is grinning, and partly to consider whether Shebotha can be disposed of in any other way.

Cypriano suggests another, asking—

"Why couldn't we take her in among these trees, and tie her to one of them? There's underwood thick enough to conceal her from the eyes of anyone passing by, and with the muffle over her head, as now, she couldn't cry out that they'd hear her."

"'Twould never do," rejoins Gaspar, after an instant of reflection. "Hide her as we might, they'd find her all the same. These redskins, half-naked though they are, can glide about among bushes, even thorny ones, like slippery snakes. So many of them, they'd beat every bit of thicket within leagues, in less than no time. Besides, you forget their dogs. Scores they have—ay, hundreds, some of them keen-scented as beagles. Carrai! they'd smell the nasty witch half-a-mile off, and so discover her whereabouts to their masters."

"True," returns Cypriano, seeing the plan he has proposed would not do. "In that way they would find her, no doubt."

"And if they didn't," interposed Ludwig, speaking from a sentiment of humanity, "it would be dreadful."

"Dreadful! what do you mean?" asks Cypriano, looking puzzled. "For them not to find her is just what we want."

"Ah, cousin! how would it be for her? Tied to a tree, with no hope— no chance of getting loosed from it—she'd die of hunger or thirst— miserably perish. Wicked as Shebotha is, we'd be worse than she if we left her to such a fate as that, to say nothing of our bringing it upon her. Ay, and for doing so we'd deserve the same ourselves, or something as bad."

"Well, Senor Ludwig," rejoins the gaucho, with an air of submission rather than conviction, "you may be right in what you say, and I'm not the man to deny it. But there need be no difference of opinion on that point. Leaving Shebotha tied to a tree wouldn't do on any account, for the reasons I've stated. It might—most likely would, and, as you say, it ought—end in ourselves getting tied to trees or stakes, with a bundle of faggots between our legs set to the tune of a slow fire. But," he adds, after a second or two spent considering, "there's only one other way I can think of to deal with the witch, if we're not to take her with us."

"What's the other?" asks Cypriano, seeing that the gaucho hesitates to declare it.

"Why, knock her on the head, or draw the blade of a cuchilla across her throat, and so stop her grunting at once and for ever. The old wretch deserves no better fate and hanging's too good for her. But they'd find her dead body all the same; though not with a tongue in it to tell who stopped her wind, or, what's of more consequence, how and which way we went off. Besides, I dare say, the Senor Ludwig wouldn't agree to our getting disembarrassed of her in that fashion."

"Oh! no, no!" ejaculates the humane youth, horrified at the thought of such cruelty, "anything but that, Caspar."

"Well, there isn't anything but what I propose doing—that is, taking her along. I'm willing to accommodate her on the croup of my recado, and will show her all the gallantry she deserves. If you're jealous, Senor Ludwig, you may have her behind you; and as your horse is the lightest laden, that might be best. When we're crossing back over that riacho where you left your saddle-bags, if you're tired of riding double, you can drop her down among the lightning-eels, and let them play their batteries upon her old bones till every joint of them cracks asunder."

Were it not for the gravity of the situation, Gaspar's young companions would be greatly amused at his quaint rhodomontade. But as both are too anxious about the future, and in no humour for a jest, Ludwig only answers with a faint smile; while Cypriano, alone thinking of Francesca, has somewhat impatiently listened to it. Having hold of the bridle-rein which the gaucho has handed to him, on the latter ceasing to speak, he says in urgent tone—

"Bring her along, then, good Gaspar; and be quick about it! As you've said, we should get down to the plain as soon as possible."

The admonition is not needed, for Gaspar does not waste time over his jokes, nor allow them to interfere with his action. And while delivering the last sally, he has been looking to his horse-gear, to see that his recade is in a proper condition to receive her who is to be his double.

Satisfied it will do, he strides off to where Shebotha is tied; and in a few seconds returns bearing the sorceress in his arms, as though she were but a bundle of rags.

Hoisting her up to his horse's withers, and with a stern threat and a shake, telling her to stay there, he springs upon the saddle behind her. It would not be their relative positions, then riding double, were they starting out on a long journey. But it will do for the half-mile or so, to the bottom of the hill, and for that short distance it seems idle either to bind her to his own body or to the saddle. So thinks Gaspar; but in this the gaucho, with all his prudent sagacity, is for once incautious to a fault. As they are groping their way down the steep slope, zig-zagging among the tree trunks that stand thickly on both sides of the path, a troop of ring-tailed monkeys asleep in their tops, having their slumbers disturbed by the clink-clink of the hoofs against stones, set up a lugubrious howling. All the three horses are affrighted by the unearthly noise, but Gaspar's more than any; so much, that rearing erect upon its hind legs, with the ground so uneven, the animal loses balance, and stumbles over on its side.

As the gaucho gathers himself, stunned and somewhat dazed by the fall, 'tis to learn that for that night his riding double is at an end, with Shebotha sharing the saddle; for the sorceress is no longer to be seen!



CHAPTER FIFTY SIX.

AN INFURIATED FEMALE.

There is no mystery about Shebotha's disappearance nor aught out of the way save in the adroitness with which the aged crone contrived to effect her escape. Soon as touching the ground, and feeling herself free from the arms hitherto holding her on horseback, she has darted into the underwood, and off; not even rising erect to her feet, but on all fours, and silently as a snake. For although the hillside is so thickly overgrown with thorny scrub that a pointer would with difficulty quarter it, the supple old savage worms her way through, without making any more noise than would a badger just got out of the barrel, and away from the dogs that have been baiting it.

In her retreat, she does not proceed for any great distance in a direct line, nor long continue crawling through the tangle of bushes. She is acquainted with every inch of that wooded slope, and all the paths traversing it, even to the tiniest trace of bird or quadruped; and soon coming into one of these, she at length stands upright. But not to stay there for any time, only long enough to give a glance to the right and left, in order that she may assure herself as to which of the two she had best take. Deciding in an instant, she is off again in crouched attitude, but with the agility of youth itself. Up the hill she goes, back towards the Cemetery. And one who saw her ascending before seeing her now, would with difficulty believe it to be the same person. Then, however, she was taking it leisurely, with no particular call for haste nor the taxing of her strength; now there is a motive for her making speed, with every exertion in her power. Indeed, more than one; for she is urged by two of the strongest passions that can agitate the human breast—cupidity and vengeance. While depriving her of her ghastly necklace, Gaspar had taken the occasion to possess himself of the more elegant and valuable ornaments stripped from the person of Nacena; not with any thought to appropriate them to himself, but the intention of restoring them to their rightful owner, when the latter should re-appear to claim them. Coming back, and bringing with her the captive, the Indian girl would well deserve restitution of her trinkets.

Thwarted in her infernal schemes, stung to fury by their failure, Shebotha goes panting up the hill; but, despite her hard breathing, without stopping to take breath. Nor rests she on reaching the summit, but glides on across the Cemetery, finding her way through the wooden structures as one who knows every scaffold there, and whose bones are mouldering upon it.

It is not from fear of being followed that she is now so hastening her steps. She knows that they from whom she has escaped will not return thither. For although hindered from hearing their conversation with Nacena, and so becoming acquainted with their plans, if not fully comprehending, she at least surmises them. For, having recognised the gaucho and his companions—all three of them—what purpose could they have there other than to release the paleface girl she has in her charge? And from the fact of their having themselves released Nacena— let her go without further detention than would be required to come to an understanding—she concludes that this has been come to, and the Indian girl consented to aid them in their intended rescue. But it will not be successful if she, Shebotha, can prevent it; and desperately bent on doing so, she rushes on through the scaffolds, and down the road to the tolderia, as if some danger threatened her from behind.

Arriving by the door of her own hut, she utters an exclamation of surprise at not there seeing her slave. Still another, after having called out his name, and received no answer. Her astonishment is complete and her rage at full height, when, having stepped up to the threshold of the toldo, she sees there is no one inside. The beeswax dip, burnt low and flickering in the socket, faintly lights up the hideous objects of her craft and calling; but shows no form of human being!

It is only a mechanical act her entering within the hut, and proceeding on to its inner apartment; for she is quite as sure it, too, will be found empty—as she finds it.

Almost instantly returning to the door, she stands gazing out into the darkness. Were there a light in front, her eyes would be seen to glare in their sunken sockets with the brightness of fire-balls; while in her breast is burning the fury of a concentrated vengeance. Once again she calls out the name of her slave, but as before getting no answer; and now sure that he, too, has either betrayed her, or been himself betrayed, she glides silently out of the toldo, and off towards that in which sleeps Aguara.

Soon she reaches its door, which she finds wide open; for it is within the tropics, and the night is a warm one. Craning her head inside, and listening for a second or two, she can tell by his breathing that the cacique is asleep. A slumber abruptly broken by her calling out—

"Son of Naraguana, awake!"

"Shebotha!" he exclaims, recognising her shrill treble. "What is it?" he adds, raising his head over the edge of his hamaca.

"Arise, Aguara! and make all haste. Know that there are enemies near, and treason in your tribe. You've been betrayed, and so has Shebotha!"

"Betrayed! How?" he asks in wonderment, but without leaving the hammock. "Who are these enemies you speak of? Who the traitors?"

"You'll learn that in time, chief. It may be enough for you now to know, that your paleface captive has escaped."

"Escaped!" he cries out, bounding down upon the floor, and coming forward to the entrance. "The paleface escaped, you say? Are you speaking truth, Mam Shebotha?"

"Come to my toldo, and see for yourself."

"No, that's not needed, if you say she's gone. Tell me how, when, and whither. Be quick!"

In hurried phrase she recounts the incidents which have occurred to her and Nacena on the Cemetery Hill, adding her conjectures as to what may have transpired since, and may still be in the act of occurrence. Among these last are her suspicions, well founded as we know, that Kaolin's sister has aided the paleface to escape; and that her own slave, who should have hindered, has not only connived at it, but taken himself away as well. In short, the cage is empty, and the bird with its keeper both flown!

What direction the fugitives have taken, is a question to which the sorceress can give answer without the need of any doubtful surmise or conjecture. She knows it as well as if she herself had appointed the place of rendezvous, given by Gaspar to the Indian girl. For while riding double with the gaucho, she had heard him speak of it to his companions; heard, despite the poncho spread over her ears, the word ceiba, with others, which told of their intention to stay by that tree.

The cacique knows the noted spot, as well as Nacena herself, he too having oft played beneath its shade, or climbed up its grand trunk and disported himself among its branches, when more of a boy than he is now.

But he reflects not on these past times, so full of innocence and happiness. Instead, wild with rage, and wretched as he is angry, he stays not to reflect at all; but hastily, and little better than half-dressed, he rushes forth from his toldo, calling loudly for his horse.

Meanwhile, the sorceress has aroused others of the tribe; several of whom, in obedience to their chief's command, start off for the corrals to procure the horses necessary for a pursuit of the fugitives.

Aguara's is on the ground first; and, without waiting for companion or attendant of any kind, he vaults upon the animal's back, and goes off at a gallop along the path, which, after turning around close to the hill, at about a mile's distance, farther on passes the ceiba tree.



CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.

THE CAPTIVE RECAPTURED.

Impossible to describe the feelings of Caspar, when having recovered his feet after the tumble out of his recado, he finds that Shebotha has got away from him. It is some consolation to know that neither himself nor his horse has received serious injury. Still not sufficient to satisfy him, nor allay the wild exasperation burning within his breast, which seeks to vent itself in a string of maledictions poured plenteously from his lips.

As the hag, however, has surely succeeded in getting off, and it would be idle to attempt pursuing through the thick scrub, his anathemas hurled after her are all in vain: and, at thought of this, he soon ceases to pronounce them. For the reflection quick follows, that he and his companions have now something else to think about—their own safety, doubly endangered by Shebotha's escape.

"Mil demonios!" is his last exclaim of the kind, after getting his horse upright again and himself back into the saddle, "who'd have believed the old beldame had so much suppleness in her joints? But it's no joking matter. Only to think of it! Everything looking so bright, and now Satan's luck once more back upon us—bad, if not worse, than ever! Well, we mustn't dilly-dally here. If there's still a chance left us, we'll have to look for it down below, by that big cotton tree."

Saying which, he again gives the rein to his horse, and continues the descent of the hill, the others head and tail close after.

On reaching the said cotton tree, however, Gaspar changes his mind about that spot being the best for their temporary abiding place. Since its being arranged as a rendezvous with Nacena, the circumstances have sadly altered, and, on reflection, he deems it better, as do the others, to keep on along the road towards the tolderia—at least for some little distance. There can be no harm in that, nor danger of their going astray. The path is a plain one, much trampled by horses and cattle, and, notwithstanding the darkness of the night, easily discernible. If fortune so far favour them, that the captive will be coming that way, under the guidance of the Indian girl, the sooner these be met the more chance for all eventually getting safe off, rescuers as rescued.

So concluding, they make scarce a moment's halt by the ceiba; but, passing under its umbrageous branches, head their horses along the trail leading to the town.

At this moment were it daylight, or even a clear moonlight, one placed upon the brow of the hill fronting south-eastward, and looking down to the level plain by its base, would behold two separate parties moving upon it, but in opposite directions, so that, if they continue to advance, they must meet. One party is mounted, the other afoot; the former being Gaspar and his two companions, while the latter is also composed of three individuals—Nacena, Francesca, and Shebotha's slave. The two girls, going in a half-run, are side by side, and ahead of the man; who, less free of foot, has fallen behind them to a distance of some twenty or thirty paces. Nacena, who knows the way, guides the escaping captive, and has hold of her by the hand. They are now not more than half-a-mile from the mounted party, coming the opposite way, and in a few minutes should meet it, if nothing prevent. Already within hailing distance, they might hear one another's voices; but neither being aware of this mutual proximity, all advance in silence—the trio on horseback proceeding at a slow pace for caution's sake, lest the tread of their animals should betray them.

But if their own be not heard afar, there are other hoofs making a noise to disturb the stillness of the night. Just as the Indian girl has whispered to her paleface protegee some words of cheer, saying that her friends are now no great way off, she is startled by the hoof-stroke of a horse, which her practised ear tells her to be ridden; while the rapid repetition of the sound denotes the animal going in a gallop.

Suddenly she stops, and listens. Clearer rings the "tramp—tramp," as nearer the horseman approaches. Coming up behind, from the direction of the town, who can it be but one in pursuit of them? And if a pursuer, what other than Aguara?

Still Nacena is in doubt, and deems it strange. As they stole away from Shebotha's hut, and through the straggling suburb of the tolderia, all was darkness and silence, everybody seeming asleep. Who or what could have awakened the cacique, and apprised him of the flight of his captive?

In asking herself these questions, Kaolin's sister is under the belief, that the sorceress is herself still a prisoner, in the keeping of that stalwart and redoubtable gaucho. Hence her surprise at their being pursued, with the uncertainty that they are so, and the further doubt of the pursuer being Aguara.

He it is, notwithstanding; and as yet pursuing alone. For although soon can be heard the hoof-strokes of other horses than his also following, these are faint and far-off. He himself hears them; knows it is a party of his young braves pressing on after, but will not wait for them to come up. For he hopes to overtake the fugitives, ere they can reach the place of rendezvous Shebotha has spoken of, and recover his captive before she can fling herself into the arms of protecting friends.

In this hope, alas! he is not disappointed. Dashing on through the darkness along a road with every foot of which both he and his horse are familiar, he first comes up with the half-witted creature lagging behind, soon as beside him putting the question—

"Where is the paleface, your prisoner?"

The man, frightened at seeing it is the cacique, in his confusion hesitates to make reply. But Aguara does not wait for it. He hears voices ahead—soft and sweet, though raised in tones of alarm—and knows she must be there. Giving his horse's head a wrench, so as to shave close past the delinquent jailer, he raises his macana, and dealing a downward blow, strikes the latter to the earth: then hastens on after the others.

Nacena now knows for certain that they are pursued, as also who is the pursuer. She has heard the question asked by Aguara, recognising his voice; heard also the dull thud of his club as it descended on the skull of the unfortunate man; and now again hears the trampling of hoofs renewed and drawing nearer. She has still hold of Francesca's hand, and for a moment debates within herself what is best to be done, and whether she should not release it, and turning show front to the pursuer.

Too late for that, or aught else likely to be of service either to herself or protegee. Before any resolve reaches her the cacique, is by their side; and flinging himself from his horse, grasps both by the wrists, wrenching asunder their joined hands. Then turning upon the Indian girl with a cry of rage—a curse in the Tovas tongue—he strikes her with his shut fist, inflicting a blow which sends her reeling to the earth. Before she can regain her feet he is once more upon his horse, and heading back for the tolderia—his recovered captive in his arms!



CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

VA CON DIOS.

In a rush Aguara goes, fast as his animal can be urged by heel and voice. For, while so roughly separating the two girls, these had shouted in alarm, and his ear had caught other cries raised at a distance, and as if responsive. Now he hears them again; men's voices, and mingling with them the trampling of hoofs—clearly several horses coming on in a gallop. She, he has in his arms, hears them too, but listens not in silence or unresisting. Instead, she struggles and shrieks, calling "Help, help!" with the names "Ludwig, Cypriano, Gaspar!"

She is heard by all three; for it is they who responded to the cries of herself and Nacena, knowing who gave utterance to them. Near they are now, and riding as in a race; they, too, pressing their horses to utmost speed. But the darkness is against them, as their ignorance of the ground, with which the man pursued is familiar. By this, at every step, they are obstructed; and but for the screams of Francesca, still continued, might as well abandon the chase for any chance they have of overtaking him.

And overtake him they never would, nor could, were fortune not in their favour. An accident it may appear; at the same time seeming a divine retribution for wrong—a very Nemesis in the path of the wicked Aguara. On returning past the spot where he had struck down Shebotha's slave, he sees the unfortunate man stretched along the ground, and, to all appearance, still insensible. Nought cares he for that, but his horse does; and, at sight of the prostrate form, the animal, with a snort of affright, shies to one side, and strikes off in a new direction. Going at so swift a pace, and in such a dim light, in a few bounds it enters among some bushes, where it is brought up standing. Before its rider can extricate it, a strong hand has hold of it by the head, with a thumb inserted into its nostrils, while the fingers of another are clutching at his own throat. The hand on the horse's muzzle is that of Caspar the gaucho, the fingers that grope to get a gripe on the rider's neck being those of Cypriano.

It is a crisis in the life of the young Tovas cacique, threatening either death or captivity. But subtle as all Indians are, and base as any common fellow of his tribe, instead of showing a bold front, he eludes both, by letting go the captive girl, himself slipping to the ground, and, snake like, gliding off among the bushes.

On the other side of his horse, which he has also abandoned, Francesca falls into the arms of her brother, who embraces her with wild delight. Though not wilder, nor half so thrilling, as that which enraptures the ear of Cypriano—to whose arms she is on the instant after transferred.

But it is not a time for embraces, however affectionate, nor words to be wasted in congratulation. So Gaspar tells them, while urging instant departure from that perilous spot.

"Our lucky star's gone up again," he says, with a significant nod to Aguara's horse, which he has still hold of. "There is now four of us; and as I take it this brisk little musteno is fairly our property, there'll be no need for any of us riding double—to say nothing of one having a witch behind his back. Without such incumbrance, it'll be so much the better for the saving of time; which at this present moment presses, with not the hundredth part of a second to spare. So hijos mios, and you, hija mia querida, let us mount and be off!"

While the gaucho is yet thus jocularly delivering himself, Cypriano has lifted his cousin, Francesca, to the back of the cacique's abandoned steed; on which he well knows she can keep her seat, were it the wildest that ever careered across campo. Then he remounts his own, the other two taking to their saddles at the same time.

A word about the route, and all four start together; not to go back along the trail towards the ceiba tree, but striking straight out for the open plain, in a direction which Gaspar conjectures to be the right one.

They would willingly diverge from it to ascertain whether the poor creature clubbed by Aguara be dead or still living; and, if the latter, take him along. But Gaspar urges the danger of delay; above all, being burdened with a man not only witless, but now in all likelihood disabled by a wound which would make the transporting him an absolute impossibility.

Ludwig and his sister are more desirous to turn aside, and learn how it is with Nacena. But again the gaucho, no: greatly given to sentiment, objects. Luckily, as if to relieve them from all anxiety, just then they hear a voice, which all recognise as that of the Tovas belle, calling out in tolerably pure Castilian:—

"Va con Dios!"

Standing up in his stirrups, with a shout and counter salute, the gaucho returns the valediction; then, spurring forward and placing himself at the head of the retreating party, they ride on, with no thought of again halting so long as their horses can keep their feet.



CHAPTER FIFTY NINE.

FRIENDS OR FOES?

The solitary estancia which for two years had been the happy home of Ludwig Halberger and his family, but late the abode of deepest sorrow, is once more revisited by a gleam of joy. For the rescuing party has returned to it, bringing Francesca back safe and still unharmed. In the tumult of gratified emotions at recovering her lost child,—or rather children, for she had begun to think them all for ever gone from her— the widow almost forgets that she is widowed.

Only for a brief moment, however. The other great bereavement has been too recent to remain long out of her thoughts, and soon returns to them in its full afflicting bitterness.

But she has no time to dwell upon it now. The tale of actual experience which the rescuers have brought back, with Caspar's surmises added, has given her a full and clear comprehension of everything; not only explaining the tragic event already past, but foreshadowing other and further dangers yet to come, and which may, at any moment, descend upon herself and the dear ones still left to her.

She has no longer any doubts as to the hand that has dealt her such a terrible blow; neither of the man who actually committed the murder, nor of him who instigated it. For Francesca's recognition of Valdez has confirmed all the gaucho's conjectures.

And the Dictator of Paraguay is not the man to leave unfinished either his cruel deeds or designs. Surely will he further prosecute them, either by hastening himself to the estancia, or sending thither his myrmidons. Yes, at any hour, any minute, a party of these may appear approaching it from the east, while in like short time the pursuing Tovas, headed by their enraged cacique, may show themselves coming from the west.

No wonder that the moments of mutual congratulation between the Senora Halberger and those just returned to her are brief, and but little joyful. The fugitives have reached home, but not to find it a refuge. For them it is no more a place of safety; instead, the most perilous in which they could now or ever after sojourn. But where are they to go— whither further flee? In all the Chaco there is not a spot that can shelter them from such pursuers as they are expecting!

It is now near noon of the fourth day since they left the Sacred Town of the Tovas, and in the interval they had been riding hard and fast, day and night, scarce allowing themselves either sleep or rest. But, fast as they have travelled, they know that Aguara, with his braves, will not be far behind; and although less than an hour has elapsed since their arrival at the estancia, Gaspar has already made preparations for their departure from it. Assisted by the faithful Guano Indians, who of course are to accompany them in their flight, he has caught up and caparisoned fresh horses, with the mules belonging to the establishment. Still the question remains unanswered—Whither are they to go? Throughout all the vicissitudes of his eventful life, never had the gaucho one so perplexing him, or fraught with such fears.

In the hope of finding an answer, and the better to reflect upon it, he has drawn a little apart from the house, with the hurry and bustle going on around it. A slight eminence, not far off in front, gives a commanding view of the campo; and, taking stand upon its top, he first casts a sweeping glance around the horizon, then fixes it only in one direction—that southwards, towards the old tolderia. For, although expecting enemies both from east and west, he knows that, coming from either side, they will most likely approach by the Pilcomayo's bank; the former by the trail leading up the river, the latter by the same going down. It is not the first time for him to be standing on that elevated spot. Every ten minutes since their return to the estancia, he has been upon it, gazing out in the same way, and for the self-same purpose. Still, as yet, he observes nothing to add to his apprehensions, already keen enough. No living thing—much less human being—stirs over the wide expanse of green grassy plain. For it is near the meridian hour, and the tropical sun, pouring its fervid rays vertically down, has forced both birds and quadrupeds inside the cooler shadow of their coverts. Only two of the former are seen—a brace of urubus, or "king vultures," soaring in circles aloft—beautiful birds, but less emblematic of life than death. A bad omen he might deem their presence; and worse, if he but saw what they see. For, from their more elevated position, they command a view of the plain to a much greater distance, and see mounted men upon it; not a single party, but three distinct groups of them, leagues distant from each other, though all round for the estancia. They are approaching it by separate routes, and from different quarters of the compass; one party coming up the Pilcomayo's bank, and making straight for the old tolderia, a second moving towards the same place on the down-river trail; while the third, away from the river, and out upon the open plain, is heading more direct for the estancia itself. The first cohort, which is the smallest, is composed of some forty or fifty horsemen, riding "by twos;" their regular formation on the march, but more the uniformity in their dress, arms, and accoutrements, telling them to be soldiers. For such they really are—the cuarteleros of Paraguay, with Rufino Valdez riding at their head; not as their commanding officer, but in the exercise of his more proper and special calling of vaqueano, or guide. Ghastly and pallid, with his arm supported in a sling, he is on the way back to Halberger's estancia, to complete the ruffian's task assigned to him by the Dictator of Paraguay, and make more desolate the home he had already enough ruined. But for his mischance in the biscachera, the rescuers would have found it empty on their return, and instead of a lost daughter, it would have been the mother missing.

The second band of horsemen, coming from the opposite quarter and down the river, is no other than the pursuing party of Tovas, with Aguara at their head. They are mostly young men, the cacique's particular friends and partisans, nearly a hundred in number, all armed with bolas and long spears. Hastily summoned together, they had started in pursuit soon as they could catch up their horses; but with all their speed the rescuing party had so far kept ahead, as to have arrived at the estancia some time before them. But they are pressing on for it now, fast as their horses can carry them, urged forward by their leader, who, in his rage, is not only determined to retake the escaped captive, but kill cousin, brother, all who aided in her escape.

The third party, also approaching from the west, but by a route leading direct to the house, with the river far southward on their right, is, as the second, composed entirely of Tovas Indians. But, instead of them being the youths of the tribe, they are, for the most part, men of mature age, though a young man is at their head, and acting as their commander. There is a girl riding by his side, a beautiful girl, at a glance recognisable as Nacena—he himself being her brother, Kaolin.

They and their party are also pursuing. Though not to retake, the paleface captive; instead, to protect her—the object of their pursuit being Aguara himself. For soon as the latter had started off on his reckless chase—braving public opinion, and defying the opposition of the elders—a revolution had arisen in the tribe; while a council meeting, hastily called in the malocca, had, with almost unanimous vote, deposed him from the chieftainship, and chosen Kaolin cacique in his stead. Needless to say, that to all this Nacena was a consenting party. And something more—since she gave the cue to her brother, who was chief instigator in the revolt. That blow which laid her along the earth, with the cause for which it was given, had severed the last link of love that bound her to Aguara, and for him her heart is now full of hate and burning with vengeance. While pressing on in pursuit of his escaped captive, little dreams the deposed cacique of the Tovas, either that he has been deposed of his chieftainship or that others are pursuing him.

But his pursuers are not now behind him; instead, in front, or, at all events, nearer to the estancia than he. For Kaolin's followers, availing themselves of a route known to one of their number—a shorter cut across the pampas—have passed the party led by Aguara, and will be the first to arrive at the objective point aimed at by both.

And they are first sighted by Gaspar, though the gaucho has not been looking in their direction, little expectant of pursuers to come from that quarter. The urubus have guided him, or rather their shadows gliding over the grassy sward; these, as the birds making them, having suddenly passed away towards the west. Following them with his eyes, he sees what causes him to exclaim—

"Santos Dios! we are lost. Too late—too late; 'tis all over with us now!"

His cry, sent up in accent of deepest despair, brings Ludwig and Cypriano to his side: and the three stand watching the dark cohort advancing towards them. None of them speaks or thinks of retreat. That would be idle, and any attempt at escape must surely result in failure; while to resist would but hasten the disaster impending over them. Convinced of this, they no longer contemplate either flight or resistance, but stand in sullen silence to await the approach of the pursuers, for such they suppose them to be. Deeming them avengers also, as well they may, recalling their last encounter with the young Tovas chief.

Never did mistaken men more rejoice at their mistake than do they, when, on the band of Indian braves galloping up to the ground, they behold at its head, and evidently in command of it, not the cacique Aguara, but the sub-chief, Kaolin, and beside him his sister Nacena! She who aided them in effecting the escape of the captive, and, as a last word, bade them "God speed," would not be with pursuers who are hostile.

Nor is she, as they soon learn; instead, along with friends who come but to give comfort and protection!



CHAPTER SIXTY.

SPEEDY RETRIBUTION.

Short time stays Kaolin and his party by the estancia: for the newly-elected chief of the Tovas is a man of ready resolves and quick action, and soon as his story is told, with that of the others heard in return, he again mounts, and makes ready for the march—this time to be directed towards the old tolderia. He knows that his rival cacique must come that way, as also the other enemy of whom Caspar has given him information, and who may be expected as soon, if not sooner, than Aguara himself.

The gaucho goes along with him, as so would Cypriano and Ludwig, but that Caspar forbids it; urging them to remain at the estancia as company, and, if need be, protection, for the senora and nina. Thus influenced, they both stay.

Straight off over the pampa rides Kaolin, at the head of his hundred stalwart warriors, his sister still by his side. She also had been counselled to remain behind, an advice she disdainfully rejected. The revenge burning in her breast will not let her rest, till she has seen her false lover, her insulter, laid low.

Her brother, too, and all his band of braves, are alike eager for the conflict to come. It was not so before their arrival at the estancia. Then they only thought of dealing with their deposed cacique and his youthful followers, foolish as himself; nor dreamt they aught of danger. But now, with the prospect of meeting another and very different enemy, more dangerous and more hated, their savage nature is roused within them to an ire uncontrollable. By chance, Kaolin himself has a special dislike for the vaqueano Valdez; while as to the others, despite the restored treaty forced upon them by Aguara, their friendship has not been restored with it; and they urge their horses forward, burning for an encounter with the cuarteleros of Paraguay.

Though the gaucho rides at the head of the quick marching party, and alongside their leader, it is not to guide them. They know the ground as well, and better than he; for oft and many a time have they quartered that same campo, in pursuit of gama, guazuti, and ostrich.

Kaolin directs his march in a straight course for the old tolderia, though not now designing to go so far. His objective point for the present is a high bluff which hems in the valley of the Pilcomayo, and from which a view may be obtained of the river for long leagues upward and downward, as of the deserted village, at no great distance off upon its bank. Through a ravine that cuts this bluff transversely, the latter can alone be reached from the elevated plain over which they are advancing.

Arrived at the upper end of the gorge, they do not go down it. Instead, commanding his warriors to make halt, Kaolin himself dismounts; and signing the gaucho to keep him company, the two step crouchingly forward and upward to the outer edge of the cliff.

Soon as reaching it they get sight of what they had more than half expected to see: two bands of men mounted and upon the march, one with the horses' heads directed down the stream, the other up it. The first, as can be seen at a glance, is the pursuing party of Tovas youths led by Aguara; while the sun shining upon gilt buttons, with the glittering of lance blades and barrels of guns, tells the other to be a troop of soldiers, beyond doubt the looked for cuarteleros! Both are at about a like distance from the abandoned town, heading straight for it; and while Kaolin and the gaucho continue watching them they ride in among the toldos from opposite sides, meeting face to face on the open space by the malocca.

At sight of one another the two sets come to a sudden halt; and, for a second or two, seem engaged in a mutual and suspicious reconnaissance. But their distrust is of short continuance; for there is a rogue at the head of each, and these, as if instinctively recognising one another, are seen to advance and shake hands, while their followers mutually mingle and fraternise.

Amicable relations being thus established between them, the men on both sides are observed to dismount, as if they intended to make stay in the tolderia. A movement, which puzzles Kaolin and the gaucho, who were about going back to the gorge with the design of taking steps for defending it. Instead, they remain upon the cliff's crest to watch the enemy below.

And they continue watching there till the sun goes down, and the purple of twilight spreads itself over the plain bordering the Pilcomayo; this succeeded by a mist rising from the river, and shrouding the deserted village in its murky embrace. But before night's darkness is altogether on they see a mounted troop, filing by twos, out from among the toldos, with lances carried aloft, and pennons floating over their heads—surely the cuarteleros. There is just light enough left to show two men in the lead, dressed differently from these following. One of these resplendent in a feather-embroidered manta, Kaolin recognises as his rival Aguara; while the gaucho identifies the other as his oldest, deadliest, and most dangerous enemy, Valdez, the vaqueano.

They remain not a moment longer on the cliff; for, eager as Gaspar Mendez may be to rid himself of that enemy, he is not more so than the Indian to send to his long account the man who insulted his sister. Now more than ever determined upon avenging her wrongs, he rushes back to his braves, and hurriedly puts them in ambush near the head of the gorge, at a point where the defile is narrowest; himself taking stand on a ledge, which commands the pass, in such manner, that with his long spear he can reach across it from side to side.

At length has the opportunity arrived for the angry brother to take the retribution he has resolved upon—Nacena herself being a witness to it. For she is near by, standing on a higher bench behind, in posed attitude, with her features hard set and lips compressed, as one about to be spectator to a sad and painful scene. But if she feel sadness, it is not for the death now threatening Aguara. That blow had changed her fond love to bitterest resentment; and instead of doing aught, or saying word, to stay her brother's hand, she but by her presence and silence incites him to the deed of vengeance.

It is soon and quickly done. Scarce has the ambuscade been set, when the trampling of horses heard down the defile tells of a cavalcade coming up, and presently the foremost files appear rounding an angle of rock. Dim as is the light, the horseman leading can be told to be the young Tovas cacique, while the one immediately in his rear is recognisable as Rufino Valdez. At sight of the latter the gaucho, who is close to Kaolin, feeling all his old hatred revived, and recalling, too, the murder of his beloved master, with difficulty restrains himself from springing down and commencing the conflict. He is prevented by a sign from Kaolin; who, on the instant, after leaning forward lounges out with his spear. A wild cry tells that it has pierced the body of Aguara; then drawn instantly back and given a second thrust, it passes through that of the vaqueano—both dropping from their horses dead, as if by a bullet through the brain!

The soldiers coming on behind are brought to a sudden stop; scarce comprehending why, till they hear the wild Tovas war-cry raised above their heads, at the same time being saluted with a shower of bolas peridas rained down from the rocks, these terrible missiles crushing in every skull with which they came into contact.

The scared cuarteleros stay for no more; but, with a cry of treason, turn their horses' heads, and hurry back down the ravine. Nor stop they at the tolderia; but still under the belief of having been betrayed, continue their retreat down the river, and on toward Paraguay, leaving over a dozen of them dead in that dark defile.

As for the followers of Aguara, they make no show of fight. Now that their leader is no more, there is no cause of quarrel between them and the warriors of the tribe, and not a hand is raised to avenge their young cacique. For on learning the full character of his designs, and his complicity with the cruel vaqueano, all acknowledge that both men have but met the death they deserved.



CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

CONCLUSION.

After a day's rest at their old tolderia, the two parties of Tovas, now united in amity, set out on return to their Sacred Town. And along with them goes the Senora Halberger, with all the members of her family—including the Guano Indian domestics, and, needless to say, not leaving Gaspar Mendez behind. And, alike idle to declare, that they go not as captives; but guests, to be honoured and better cared for than ever before. Better protected, too; for, as ever do they need protection; now more than ever likely to be under the ban of the Paraguayan despot. That solitary estancia would no longer be a safe place of residence for them, and they well know it.

Perfect safety they find at the Sacred Town, and hospitality too, great as when Naraguana himself dispensed it. For is not Kaolin now cacique—he who saved them from death and destruction?

Kindly he extends his protection, and generously bestows his hospitality. But they do not for long need the former, nor are they called upon to abuse the latter by a too protracted stay. Shortly after their arrival at the Sacred Town, they get news which, though of death, gives them joy, as it only could and should; since it is the death of that man who has been the cause of all their miseries. Jose Francia, feared far and wide throughout Paraguay, and even beyond its borders, has at length paid the debt due by all men, whether bad or good. But although dead, strange to say, in the land he so long ruled with hard ruthless hand, still dreaded almost as much as when living; his cowed and craven subjects speaking of him with trembling lips and bated breath, no more as "El Supremo," but "El Defunto!"

The Senora Halberger believes she may now return to her native country, without fear of further persecution from him. But Caspar thinks otherwise; deeming it still unsafe, and pointing out the danger of their being called to account for what they were not guilty of—the slaughter of the cuarteleros in the defile. In fine, he urges her to make her future home in the Argentine States; a pleasanter land to live in, besides being a land of liberty, and, above all, the orthodox country of his own class and kind, the gauchos.

Observing the justness of his arguments, she consents to follow his advice; and to the Argentine States they all go, journeying across many great rivers and through hundreds of miles of wilderness. But they are not permitted to travel either unprotected or alone; for Kaolin accompanies them, with a band of his best braves—Nacena also forming one of the escort.

The Tovas cacique sees them over the Salado river, and within safe distance of the outlying settlements of San Rosario, there leaving them. But when he parts company, to return to the Sacred Town, his sister returns not with him. Though as a brother he be dear to her, she has found one dearer, with whom she prefers to stay. And does stay, Kaolin himself consenting; since the dearer one is his own friend and former playmate. The gentle Ludwig has at length succeeded in winning the heart of the savage maiden—still whole, despite the tearing of a misplaced passion, long since passed away.

Our tale could be prolonged, and the characters who have figured in it followed further; but not through scenes of the same exciting character as those already detailed. Instead, the record of their after life, though not devoid of stirring incident, is more signalised by scenes of peace and prosperity. The reader will be satisfied with a peep at it, obtained some ten years later than the date of their settling down in the Argentine States. A traveller at this time passing from San Rosario to the German Colonies recently established on the Salado river, near the old but abandoned missionary settlement of Santa Fe, could not fail to observe a grand estancia; a handsome dwelling-house with outbuildings, corrals for the enclosure of cattle, and all the appurtenances of a first-class ganaderia, or grazing establishment. Should he ask to whom it belongs, he would have for answer, "The Senora Halberger;" and if curiosity led him to inquire further, he might be told that this lady, who is una viuda, is but the nominal head of the concern, which is rather owned conjointly by her son and nephew, living along with her. Both married though; the latter, Senor Cypriano, to her daughter and his own cousin; while the former, Senor Ludwig, has for his wife an Indian woman; with possibly the remark added, that this Indian woman is as beautiful and accomplished as though she were a white.

Were the traveller to deviate a little from his route, and approach near enough to the house, he might see the members of this double though united family, surrounded by several pretty children of both sexes, strolling about in happy harmony, and with that freedom from care which speaks of wealth, at the same time telling of its having been honestly acquired.

Whether or not such a tableau be presented to the traveller's eye, one man who should figure in it would sure be seen moving about the place. For he is the mayor-domo of the estate, and if not actual master, the manager of all. As in that old estancia near the northern bank of the Pilcomayo, so in this new and grander one on the southern side of the Salado, everything is entrusted, as safely it may be, to GASPAR, THE GAUCHO.

THE END