They had the place all to themselves; no one to take counsel with, none to comfort them; Don Ignacio, at an early hour, having been called off to his duties in the city. But they were not destined to spend the whole of that day without seeing a visitor. As the clocks of San Augustin were striking 8 p.m. one presented himself at the gate in the guise of an officer of Hussars, Don Carlos Santander. Nor was he alone, but with an escort accompanying. They were seated in the verandah of the inner court, but saw him through the saguan, the door of which was open, saw him enter at the outer gate, and without dismounting come on towards them, several files of his men following. He had been accustomed to visit them there, and they to receive his visits, however reluctantly, reasons of many kinds compelling them. But never had he presented himself as now. It was an act of ill-manners his entering unannounced, another riding into the enclosure with soldiers behind him; but the rudeness was complete when he came on into the patio still in the saddle, his men too, and pulled up directly in front of them, without waiting for word of invitation. The stiff, formal bow, the expression upon his swarthy features, severe, but with ill-concealed exultation in it, proclaimed his visit of no complimentary kind.

By this both were on their feet, looking offended, even angry, at the same time alarmed. And yet little surprised, for it was only confirmation of the fear that had been all day oppressing them—its very fulfilment. But that they believed it this they would have shown their resentment by retiring and leaving him there. As it was, they knew that would be idle, and so stayed to hear what he had to say. It was—

"Senoritas, I see you're wondering at my thus presenting myself. Not strange you should. Nor could any one more regret the disagreeable errand I've come upon than I. It grieves me sorely, I assure you."

"What is it, Colonel Santander?" demanded the Countess, with sang-froid partially restored.

"I hate to declare it, Condesa," he rejoined, "still more to execute it. But, compelled by the rigorous necessities of a soldier's duty, I must."

"Well, sir; must what?"

"Make you a prisoner; and, I am sorry to add, also the Dona Luisa."

"Oh, that's it!" exclaimed the Countess, with a scornful inclination of the head. "Well, sir, I don't wonder at your disliking the duty, as you say you do. It seems more that of a policeman than a soldier."

The retort struck home, still further humiliating him in the eyes of the woman he loved, Luisa Valverde. But he now knew she loved not him, and had made up his mind to humble her in a way hitherto untried. Stung by the innuendo, and dropping his clumsy pretence at politeness, he spitefully rejoined—

"Thank you, Condesa Almonte for your amiable observation. It does something to compensate me for having to do policeman's duty. And now let it be done. Please to consider yourself under arrest; and you also, Senorita Valverde."

Up to this time the last named lady had not said a word, the distress she was in restraining her. But as mistress there, she saw it was her turn to speak, which she did, saying—

"If we are your prisoners, Colonel Santander, I hope you will not take us away from here till my father comes home. As you may be aware, he's in the city."

"I am aware of that, Dona Luisa, and glad to say my orders enable me to comply with your wishes, and that you remain here till Don Ignacio returns. I'm enjoined to see to your safe keeping—a very absurd requirement, but one which often falls to the lot of the soldier as well as the policeman."

Neither the significant words nor the forced laugh that accompanied them had any effect on her for whom they were intended. With disdain in her eyes, such as a captive queen might show for the common soldier who stood guard over her, the Condesa had already turned her back upon the speaker and was walking away. With like proud air, but less confident and scornful, Luisa Valverde followed. Both were allowed to pass inside, leaving the Hussar colonel to take such measures for their keeping as he might think fit.

His first step was to order in the remainder of his escort and distribute them around the house, so that in ten minutes after the casa de campo of Don Ignacio Valverde bore resemblance to a barrack, with sentinels at every entrance and corner!



CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.

UNDER ARREST.

Scarce necessary to say that Luisa Valverde and Ysabel Almonte were at length really alarmed—fully alive to a sense of their danger.

It was no more a question of the safety of their lovers, but their own. And the prospect was dark, indeed. Santander had said nothing of the reason for arresting them; nor had they cared to inquire. They divined it; no longer doubting that it was owing to revelations made by the hunchback.

Sure now that this diminutive wretch not only himself knew their secret, but had made it known in higher quarters, there seemed no hope for them; instead, ruin staring them in the face. The indignity to their persons they were already experiencing would be followed by social disgrace, and confiscation of property.

"Oh, Ysabelita! what will they do to us?" was the Dona Luisa's anxious interrogatory, soon as they had got well inside their room. "Do you think they'll put us in a prison?"

"Possibly they will. I wish there was nothing worse awaiting us."

"Worse! Do you mean they'd inflict punishment on us—that is, corporal punishment? Surely they daren't?"

"Daren't! Santa Anna dare anything—at least, neither shame nor mercy will restrain him. No more this other man, his minion, whom you know better than I. But it isn't punishment of that kind I'm thinking of."

"What then, Ysabel? The loss of our property? It'll be all taken from us, I suppose."

"In all likelihood it will," rejoined the Condesa, with as much unconcern as though her estates, value far more than a million, were not worth a thought.

"Oh! my father! This new misfortune, and all owing to me. 'Twill kill him!"

"No, no, Luisita! Don't fear that. He will survive it, if aught survives of our country's liberty. And it will, all of it, be restored again. 'Tis something else I was thinking of."

Again the other asked "What?" her countenance showing increased anxiety.

"What we as women have more to fear than aught else. From the loss of lands, houses, riches of any sort, one may recover—from the loss of that, never!"

Enigmatic as were the words, Luisa Valverde needed no explanation of them, nor pressed for it. She comprehended all now, and signified her apprehension by exclaiming, with a shudder, "Virgen Santissima!"

"The prison they will take us to," pursued the Countess, "is a place— that in the Plaza Grande. We shall be immured there, and at the mercy of that man, that monster! O God!—O Mother of God, protect me!"

At which she dropped down upon a couch despairingly, with face buried in her hands.

It was a rare thing for the Condesa Almonte to be so moved—rather, to show despondence—and her friend was affected accordingly. For there was another man at whose mercy she herself would be—one like a monster, and as she well knew equally unmerciful—he who at that moment was under the same roof with them—in her father's house, for the time its master.

"But, Ysabel," she said, hoping against hope, "surely they will not dare to—"

She left the word unspoken, knowing it was not needed to make her meaning understood.

"Not dare!" echoed the Countess, recovering nerve and again rising to her feet. "As I've said, he'll dare anything—will Don Antonio Lopez De Santa Anna. Besides, what has he to fear? Nothing. He can show good cause for our imprisonment, else he would never have had us arrested. Enough to satisfy any clamour of the people. And how would any one ever know of what might be done to us inside the Palacio? Ah, Luisita querida, if its walls could speak they might tell tales sad enough to make angels weep. We wouldn't be the first who have been subjected to insult—ay, infamy—by El excellentissimo. Valga me Dios!" she cried out in conclusion, stamping her foot on the floor, while the flash of her eyes told of some fixed determination. "If it be so, that Palace prison will have another secret to keep, or a tale to tell, sad and tragic as any that has preceded. I, Ysabel Almonte, shall die in it rather than come out dishonoured."

"I, too!" echoed Luisa Valverde, if in less excited manner, inspired by a like heroic resolve.

While his fair prisoners were thus exchanging thought and speech, Santander, in the sala grande outside, was doing his best to pass the time pleasantly. An effort it was costing him, however, and one far from successful. His last lingering hope of being beloved by Luisa Valverde was gone—completely destroyed by what had late come to his knowledge—and henceforth his love for her could only be as that of Tarquin for Lucretia. Nor would he have any Collatinus to fear—no rival, martial or otherwise—since his master, Santa Anna, had long since given up his designs on Don Ignacio's daughter, exclusively bending himself to his scheme of conquest—now revenge—over the Condesa. But though relieved in this regard, and likely to have his own way, Carlos Santander was anything but a happy man after making that arrest; instead, almost as miserable as either of those he had arrested.

Still keeping up a pretence of gallantry, he could not command their company in the drawing-room where he had installed himself; nor, under the circumstances, would it have been desirable. He was not alone, however; Major Ramirez and the other officers of his escort being there with him; and, as in like cases, they were enjoying themselves. However considerate for the feelings of the ladies, they made free enough with the house itself, its domestics, larder, and cocina, and, above all, the cellar. Its binns were inquired into, the best wine ordered to be brought from them, as though they who gave the order were the guests of an hotel and Don Ignacio's drawing-room a drinking saloon.

Outside in the courtyard, and further off by the coach-house, similar scenes were transpiring. Never had that quiet casa de campo known so much noise. For the soldiers had got among them—it was the house of a rebel, and therefore devoted to ruin.



CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

THE COCHERO DOGGED.

Just after the ladies had been proclaimed under arrest, but before the sentinels were posted around the house, a man might have been seen outside their line, making all haste away from it. He had need, his capture being also contemplated. Jose it was, who, from a place of concealment, had not only seen what passed, but heard the conversation between Santander and the Senoritas. The words spoken by his young mistress, and the rejoinder received, were all he waited for. Giving him his cue for departure, they also gave him hopes of something more than the saving of his own life. That the last was endangered he knew now—forfeited, indeed, should he fall into the hands of those who had invaded the place. So, instead of returning to the stable-yard, from which he had issued on hearing the fracas in front, he retreated rearwards, first through the ornamental grounds, then over the wall upon which the hunchback had perched himself on the preceding night. Jose, however, did not stay on it for more than a second's time. Soon as mounting to its summit, he slid down on the other side, and ran along the lane in the direction of the main road.

Before reaching this, however, a reflection caused him to slacken pace, and then come to a stop. It was still daylight, and there would be a guard stationed by the front gate, sure to see him along the road. The ground on the opposite side of the lane was a patch of rocky scrub—in short, a chapparal—into which in an instant after he plunged, and when well under cover again made stop, this time dropping down on his hands and knees. The attitude gave him a better opportunity of listening; and listen he did—all ears.

To hear voices all around the house, loudest in the direction of the stable-yard. In tones not of triumph, but telling of disappointment. For in truth it was so; the shouts of the soldiers searching for his very self, and swearing because he could not be found. He had reason to congratulate himself in having got outside the enclosure. It was now being quartered everywhere, gardens, grounds, and all.

For the time he felt comparatively safe; but he dared not return to the lane. And less show himself on the open road; as scouting parties were sure of being sent out after him. There was no alternative, therefore, but stay where he was till the darkness came down. Luckily, he would not have long to wait for it. The sun had set, and twilight in the Mexican valley is but a brief interval between day and night. In a few minutes after commencement it is over.

Short as it was, it gave him time to consider his future course of action, though that required little consideration. It had been already traced out for him, partly by the Condesa, in an interview he held with her but an hour before and partly by instructions he had received when up at the old convent direct from the lips of Don Ruperto. Therefore, hurried as was his retreat, he was not making it as one who went blindly and without definite aim. He had this, with a point to be reached, which, could he only arrive at, not only might his own safety be secured, but that of those he was equally anxious about, now more imperilled than himself.

With a full comprehension of their danger, and the hope of being able to avert it, soon as the twilight deepened to darkness he forsook his temporary place of concealment, and, returning to the lane, glided noiselessly along it towards the main road. Coming out upon this, he turned to the left, and without looking behind, hurried up the hill as fast as his limbs could carry him.

Perhaps better for him had he looked behind; and yet in the end it might have been worse. Whether or no, he was followed by a man—if it were a man—and, if a thing, not his own shadow. A grotesque creature, seemingly all arms and legs, moved after, keeping pace with him, no matter how rapidly he progressed. Not overtaking him; though it looked as if able to do so, but did not wish. Just so it was—the stalker being Zorillo.

The stalk had risen rather accidentally. The hunchback—now in a manner attached to the party of Hussars—had been himself loitering near the end of the lane, and saw the cochero as he came out on the road. He knew the latter was being sought for, and by no one more zealously than himself. Besides cupidity, he was prompted by burning revenge. The disappearance of his ill-gotten treasure was no longer a mystery to him. The abandoned halters, with the horses for which they had been intended, told him all. Only the cochero could have carried the things off.

And now, seeing the latter as he stole away in retreat, his first impulse was to raise the hue and cry, and set the soldiers after. But other reflections, quick succeeding, restrained him. They might not be in time to secure a capture. In the darkness there was every chance of the mertizo eluding them. A tract of forest was not far off, and he would be into it before they could come up. Besides, the hunchback had also conjectured that the failure of their over-night expedition was due to Jose. He must have overheard that conversation with the colonel of Hussars, and carried it direct to those whom it so seriously concerned, thus saving them from the surprise intended. In all likelihood he was now on his way to another interview with them.

If so, and if he, Zorillo, could but spot the place, and bring back report of it to Santander, it would give him a new claim for services, and some compensation for the loss he had sustained through the now hated cochero.

Soon as resolved he lost not a moment in making after, keeping just such distance between as to hinder Jose from observing him. He had the advantage in being behind, as it was all uphill, and from below he could see the other by the better light above, while himself in obscurity. But he also availed himself of the turnings of the road, and the scrub that grew alongside it, through which he now and then made way. His long legs gave a wonderful power of speed, and he could have come up with the mertizo at any moment. He knew that, but knew also it would likely cost him his life. For the cochero must be aware of what he had done—enough to deserve death at his hands. He might well dread an encounter, and was careful to avoid it. Indeed, but for his belief that he was an overmatch for the other in speed, he would not have ventured after him.

For nearly five miles up the mountain road the stalk was continued. Then he, whose footsteps were so persistently dogged, was seen to turn into a side path, which led along a ravine still upward. But the change, of course, did not throw off the sleuth-hound skulking on his track, the latter also entering the gorge, and gliding on after.

There it was darker, from the shadow of the overhanging cliffs; and for a time the hunchback lost sight of him he was following. Still, he kept on, groping his way, and at length was rewarded by seeing a light—a great blaze. It came from a bivouac fire, which threw its red glare on the rocks around, embracing within its circle the forms of men and horses. Armed men they were, and horses caparisoned for war, as could be told by the glint of weapons and accoutrement given back to the fire's blaze.

There appeared to be over a hundred of them; but the hunchback did not approach near enough to make estimate of their number. Enough for him to know who they were; and this knowledge he obtained by seeing a man of gigantic size standing by the side of the fire—the "big Tejano!" He saw, too, that the cochero had got upon the ground, his arrival creating an excitement. But he stayed to see no more: his purpose was fulfilled; and turning back down the ravine, he again got out to the road, where he put on his best speed in return for Tlalpam.



CHAPTER FIFTY NINE.

READY TO START.

As in all Mexican country houses of the class mansion, that of Don Ignacio Valverde was a quadrangular structure enclosing an inner courtyard—the patio. The latter a wide open area, flagged, in its centre a playing fountain, with orange trees and other ornamental evergreens growing in great boxes around it. Along three sides ran a verandah gallery, raised a step or two above the pavement, with a baluster and railing between. Upon this opened the doors of the different chambers, as they would into the hallway of an English house. Being one-storeyed, even the sleeping apartments were entered direct from it.

That into which the ladies had retired was the cuarto de camara of Don Luisa herself. No sentry had been stationed at its door; this being unnecessary, in view of one posted at the patio. But through a casement window, which opened into the garden at the back, they could see such precaution had been taken. A soldier out there, with carbine thrown lightly over his left arm, was doing his beat backwards and forwards.

As they had no thought of attempting escape, they might have laughed at this had they been in a mood for merriment. But they were sad, even to utter prostration.

Only for a time, however; then something of hope seemed to reanimate the Condesa, and communicate itself to her companion. It was after a report brought in by Pepita; for the lady's maid was allowed to attend upon them, coming and going freely.

"He's got away—safe!" were her words, spoken in a cautious but cheering tone, as for the second time she came into the room.

"Are you sure, Pepita?"

It was the Countess who put the question.

"Quite sure, your ladyship. I've been all around the place, to the stable, grounds, everywhere, and couldn't hear or see anything of him. Oh! he's gone, and so glad I am. They'd have made him prisoner too. Thanks to the Blessed Virgin, they haven't."

The thanksgiving was for Jose, and however fervent on Pepita's part, it was as fervently responded to by the others, the Condesa seeming more especially pleased at the intelligence.

She better understood its importance, for, but the hour before, she had given him conditional instructions, and hoped he might be now in the act of carrying them out.

Upheld by this hope, which the Dona Luisa, when told of it, shared with her, they less irksomely passed the hours.

But at length, alas! it, too, was near being given up, as the night grew later, nearing midnight. Then the little mertiza came in charged with new intelligence; not so startling, since they anticipated it. The Dueno had got home, and, as themselves, was under arrest. Astounded by what he had learned on return, and angrily protesting, the soldiers had rudely seized hold of him, even refusing him permission to speak with his daughter.

She had harboured a belief that all might be well on the coming home of her father. The last plank was shattered now. From the chair of the cabinet minister Don Ignacio Valverde would step direct into the cell of a prison! Nothing uncommon in the political history of Mexico—only one of its "cosas."

On their feet they were now, and had come close to the door, which was held slightly open by Pepita. There they stood listening to what was going on outside. The sounds of revelry lately proceeding from the sala grande were no more heard. Instead, calls and words of command in the courtyard, with a bustle of preparation. Through the trellis-work they could see a carriage with horses attached, distinguishable as their own. It was the same which had just brought Don Ignacio from the city. But the heads of the frisones were turned outward, as if it was intended to take them back. Men on horseback were moving around it; soldiers, as could be seen by their armour gleaming in the moonlight.

Those regarding their movements were not left long in suspense as to their meaning. One of the soldiers on foot, whose sleeve chevrons proclaimed him a corporal, stepped up into the corridor, and advancing along it, halted in front of their door. Seeing it open, with faces inside, he made a sort of military salute, in a gruff voice saying:

"Senoritas! Carriage ready. I've orders to conduct you to it without delay."

There was something offensive in the man's manner. He spoke with a thick tongue, and was evidently half intoxicated. But his air showed him in earnest.

"You'll allow us a little time—to put on our cloaks?"

The request came from the Condesa, who for a certain reason was wishful to retard their departure as long as might be possible.

"Carrai-i!" drawled out the cabo, the same who had won the dagger from darling Perico. "I'd allow such beautiful doncellas as you any time—all night—if 'twere only left to me. For myself, I'd far rather stick to these snug quarters, and the company of this pretty muchacha."

At which, leaning forward, with a brutish leer, he attempted to snatch a kiss from Pepita.

The girl shrunk back, but not till she had rebuked him with an angry retort and a slap across the cheek. It stung him to losing temper, and without further ceremony he said spitefully—

"Come, come, I'll have no more dilly-dallying: nos vamos!"

There was no alternative but to obey; his attitude told them he would insist upon it, and instantly. Time for cloaking had been a pretence on their part. They were expecting the summons, and the wraps were close at hand. Flinging them around their shoulders, and drawing the hoods over their heads, they issued out upon the corridor, and turned along it—the soldier preceding, with the air of one who conducted criminals to execution.

A short flight of steps led down to the pavement of the court. On reaching these, they paused and looked below. There was still a bustling about the carriage, as if some one had just been handed into it. Several of the soldiers were on foot around it, but the majority were in their saddles; and of these three or four could be distinguished as officers by the greater profusion of gold lace on their jackets and dolmans—for they were all Hussars. One who glittered more than any, seeing them at the head of the stair, gave his horse a prick with the spur, and rode up. Colonel Santander it was, like all the rest somewhat excited by drink; but still not so far gone as to forget gallantry, or rather the pretence of it.

"Ladies," he said, with a bow and air of maudlin humility, "I have to apologise for requiring you to start out on a journey at such a late hour. Duty is often an ungracious master. Luckily, your drive is not to be a very extended one—only to the city; and you'll have company in the carriage. The Dona Luisa will find her father at home."

Neither vouchsafed rejoinder—not a word—scarce giving him the grace of a look. Which a little nettling him, his smooth tone changed to asperity, as addressing himself to the soldier, he gave the abrupt order:

"Cabo! take them on to the carriage."

On they were taken; as they approached it, perceiving a face inside, pale as the moonbeams that played upon it. It was a very picture of dejection; for never had Don Ignacio Valverde experienced misery such as he felt now.

"'Tis you, father!" said his daughter, springing up, throwing her arms around him, and showering kisses where tears already trickled. "You a prisoner, too!"

"Ay, nina mia. But sit down. Don't be alarmed! It will all come right. Heaven will have mercy on us, if men do not. Sit down, Luisa!"

She sat down mechanically, the Countess by her side; and the door was banged to behind them. Meanwhile, Pepita, who insisted on accompanying her mistress, had been handed up to the box by a cochero strange to her; one of the soldiers, pressed into the service for the occasion, a quondam "jarvey," who understood the handling of horses as every Mexican does.

All were now ready for the road; the dismounted Hussars had vaulted into their saddles, the "march" was commanded, and the driver had drawn his whip to lay it on his horses, when the animals jibbed, rearing up, and snorting in affright!

No wonder, with such an object suddenly coming under their eyes. An oddly-shaped creature that came scrambling in through the saguan, and made stop beneath their very noses. A human being withal; who, soon as entering, called out, in a clear voice,—"Where is the Colonel?"



CHAPTER SIXTY.

"SURRENDER!"

If the carriage horses were startled by the apparition, no less so were the Hussars formed round. Equally frightened these, though not from the same cause. The hunchback—for it was he—had become a familiar sight to them; but not agitated as he appeared to be now. He was panting for breath, barely able to gasp out the interrogation, "Adone 'stael Coronel?"

His distraught air and the tone told of some threatening danger.

"Here!" called out Santander, springing his horse a length or two forward, "What is it, sirrah?"

"The enemy, S'nor Colonel," responded the dwarf, sliding close in to the stirrup.

"Enemy! What enemy?"

"Them we missed catching—Don Ruperto, the Irlandes, the big Tejano."

"Ha!—They!—Where?"

"Close by, S'nor. I saw them round a great camp-fire up in the mountains. They're not there now. I came on to tell you. I ran as fast as ever I was able, but they've been following. I could hear the tramp of their horses behind all the way. They must be near at hand now. Hark!"

"Patria y Libertad!"

The cry came from without, in the tone of a charging shibboleth, other voices adding, "Mueran los tyrannos!"

Instantaneously succeeded by the cracking of carbines, with shouts, and the clash of steel against steel—the sounds of a hand-to-hand fight, which the stamping and snorting of horses proclaimed between cavalry.

Never was conflict of shorter duration; over almost before they in the courtyard could realise its having commenced. The confused sounds of the melee lasted barely a minute when a loud huzza, drowning the hoof-strokes of the retreating horses, told that victory had declared itself for one side or the other. They who listened were not long in doubt as to which sent up that triumphant cheer. Through the front gate, standing open, burst a mass of mounted men, some carrying lances couched for the thrust, others with drawn sabres, many of their blades dripping blood. On came they into the courtyard, still vociferating: "Mueran los tyrannos!" while he at their head, soon as showing himself, called out in a commanding voice, "Rendite?"

By this a change had taken place in the tableau of figures beside the carriage. The Hussars having reined back, had gathered in a ruck around their colonel, irresolute how to act. Equally unresolved he to order them. That cry, "Country and Liberty," had struck terror to his heart; and now seeing those it came from, recognising the three who rode foremost—as in the clear moonlight he could—the blood of the craven ran cold. They were the men he had subjected to insult, direct degradation; and he need look for no mercy at their hands. With a spark of manhood, even such as despair sometimes inspires, he would have shown fight. Major Ramirez would, and did; for at the first alarm he had galloped out to the gate and there met death.

Not so Santander, who, although he had taken his sword out of its scabbard, made no attempt to use it, but sat shivering in his saddle, as if the weapon was about to drop from his hand.

On the instant after a blade more firmly held, and better wielded, flashed before his eyes; he who held it, as he sprung his horse up, crying out:

"Carlos Santander! your hour has come! Scoundrel! This time I intend killing you."

Even the insulting threat stung him not to resistance. Never shone moonlight on more of a poltroon, the glitter and grandeur of his warlike dress in striking contrast with his cowardly mien.

"Miserable wretch!" cried Kearney—for it was he who confronted him—"I don't want to kill you in cold blood Heaven forbid my doing murder. Defend yourself."

"He defend hisself!" scornfully exclaimed a voice—that of Cris Rock. "He dassen't as much as do that. He hasn't the steel shirt on now."

Yet another voice at this moment made itself heard, as a figure, feminine, became added to the group. Luisa Valverde it was, who, rushing out of the carriage and across the courtyard, cried out—

"Spare his life, Don Florencio. He's not worthy of your sword."

"You're right thar, young lady," endorsed the Texan, answering for Kearney. "That he ain't—an' bare worth the bit o' lead that's inside o' this ole pistol. For all, I'll make him a present o' 't—thar, dang ye."

The last words were accompanied by a flash and a crack, causing Santander's horse to shy and rear up. When the fore hoofs of the animal returned to the flags, they but missed coming down upon the body of its rider, now lying lifeless along them.

"That's gin him his quieetus, I reckin," observed Rock, as he glanced down at the dead man, whose face upturned had the full moonlight upon it, showing handsome features, that withal were forbidding in life, but now more so in the ghastly pallor of death.

No one stayed to gaze upon them, least of all the Texan, who had yet another life to take, as he deemed in the strict execution of duty and satisfaction of justice. For it too was forfeit by the basest betrayal. The soldiers were out of their saddles now, prisoners all; having surrendered without striking a blow. But crouching away in a shadowy corner was that thing of deformity, who, from his diminutive size, might well have escaped observation. He did not, however. The Texan had his eyes on him all the while, having caught a glimpse of him as they were riding in at the gate. And in those eyes now gleamed a light of a vengeance not to be allayed save by a life sacrificed. If Santander on seeing Kearney believed his hour was come, so did the dwarf as he saw Cris Rock striding towards him. Caught by the collar, and dragged out into the light, he knew death was near now.

In vain his protestations and piteous appeals. Spite of all, he had to die. And a death so unlike that usually meted out to criminals, as he himself to the commonality of men. No weapon was employed in putting an end to him: neither gun nor pistol, sword nor knife. Letting go hold of his collar, the Texan grasped him around the ankles, and with a brandish raising him aloft, brought his head down upon the pavement. There was a crash as the breaking of a cocoa-nut shell by a hammer; and when Rock let go, the mass of mis-shapen humanity dropped in a dollop upon the flags, arms and legs limp and motionless, in the last not even the power left for a spasmodic kick.

"Ye know, Cap," said the Texan, justifying himself to Kearney, "I'd be the last man to do a cruel thing. But to rid the world o' sech varmint as them, 'cording to my way o' thinking, air the purest hewmanity."

A doctrine which the young Irishman was not disposed to dispute just at that time, being otherwise and better occupied, holding soft hands in his, words exchanging with sweet lips, not unaccompanied by kisses. Near at hand Don Ruperto was doing the same, his vis-a-vis being the Condesa.

But these moments of bliss were brief—had need be. The raid of the Free Lances down to San Augustin was a thing of risk, only to have been attempted by lovers who believed their loved ones were in deadly danger. In another hour or less, the Hussars who had escaped would report themselves at San Angel and Chapultepec—then there would be a rush of thousands in the direction of Tlalpam.

So there was in reality—soldiers of all arms, "horse, foot, and dragoons." But on arrival there they found the house of Don Ignacio Valverde untenanted; even the domestics had gone out of it; the carriage, too, which has played such an important part in our tale, along with the noble frisones. The horses had not been taken out of it, nor any change made in the company it carried off. Only in the driver, the direction, and cortege. Jose again held the reins, heading his horses up the mountain road, instead of towards Mexico; while, in place of Colonel Santander's Hussars, the Free Lances of Captain Ruperto Rivas now formed a more friendly escort.



CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

CONCLUSION.

About a month after in San Augustin a small two-masted vessel—a goleta—might have been observed standing on tacks off the coast of Oaxaca, as if working against the land wind to make to the mouth of Rio Tecoyama—a stream which runs into the Pacific near the south-western corner of that State. Only sharp eyes could have seen the schooner; for it was night, and the night was a very dark one. There were eyes sharply on the lookout for her, however, anxiously scanning the horizon to leeward, some of them through glasses. On an elevated spot among the mangroves, by the river's mouth, a party was assembled, in all about a score individuals. They were mostly men, though not exclusively; three female figures being distinguishable, as forming part of the group. Two of them had the air, and wore the dress, of ladies, somewhat torn and travel-stained; the third was in the guise of a maid-servant attending them. They were the Condesa Almonte the Don Luisa Valverde, and her ever faithful Pepita.

Among the men were six with whom the reader has acquaintance. Don Ignacio, Kearney, Rock, Rivas, Jose, and he who had been major-domo in the old monastery, baptismally named Gregorio. Most of the others, undescribed, had also spent some time in the establishment with the monks while playing the part of Free Lances. They were, in fact, a remnant of the band—now broken up and dispersed.

But why! When last seen it looked as though their day of triumph had come, or was at all events near. So would it have been but for a betrayal, through which the pronunciamento had miscarried, or rather did not come off. The Dictator, well informed about it—further warned by what occurred at San Augustin—had poured troops over the Sierras into Oaxaca in force sufficient to awe the leaders of the intended insurrection. It was but by the breadth of a hair that his late Cabinet Minister, and those who accompanied him, were able to escape to the sequestered spot where we find them on the shore of the South Sea. To Alvarez, chief of the Pintos, or "spotted Indians," were they indebted for safe conduct thither; he himself having adroitly kept clear of all compromise consequent on that grito unraised. Furthermore, he had promised to provide them with a vessel in which they might escape out of the country; and it was for this they were now on the lookout.

When Ruperto Rivas, gazing through that same telescope he had given Florence Kearney to make survey of the valley of Mexico, cried out, "La goleta!" every eye around him brightened, every heart beat joyously.

Still more rejoiced were they when, after an hour's tacking against the land breeze, the goleta got inside the estuary of the stream, and working up, brought to by the edge of the mangroves.

Unencumbered with heavy baggage, they were all soon aboard, and in three days after debarked at the port of Panama. Thence crossing the Isthmus to Chagres, another sea-going craft carried them on to the city, where they need no longer live in fear of Mexico's despot.

Back to his old quarters in New Orleans had Don Ignacio repaired; again under the ban of proscription, his estates sequestrated as before. So, too, those of the Condesa Almonte.

But not for all time, believed they. They lived in hope of a restoration.

Nor were they disappointed; for it came. The pronunciamento delayed was at length proclaimed, and carried to a successful issue. Once again throughout the land of Anahuac had arisen a "grito," its battle cry "Patria y Libertad!" so earnestly and loudly shouted as to drive the Dictator from his mock throne; sending him, as several times before, to seek safety in a foreign land.

Nor were the "Free Lances" unrepresented in this revolutionary struggle; instead, they played an important part in it. Ere it broke out, they who had fled the country re-entered it over the Texan border, and rejoining their brethren, became once more ranged under the leadership of Captain Ruperto Rivas, with Florence Kearney as his lieutenant, and Cris Rock a sort of attache to the band, but a valuable adjunct to its fighting force.

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Swords returned to their scabbards, bugles no longer sounding war signals, it remains out to speak of an episode of more peaceful and pleasanter nature, which occurred at a later period, and not so very long after. The place was inside the Grand Cathedral of Mexico, at whose altar, surrounded by a throng of the land's elite, bells ringing, and organ music vibrating on the air, stood three couples, waiting to be wedded.

And wedded they were! Don Ruperto Rivas to the Condesa Almonte, Florence Kearney to the Dona Luisa Valverde, and—Jose to Pepita.

Happy they, and happy also one who was but a witness of the ceremony, having a better view of it than most of the spectators, from being the head and shoulders taller than any. Need we say this towering personage was the big Tejano? Cris looked on delightedly, proud of his comrade and protege, with the beautiful bride he had won and was wedding. For all it failed to shake his own faith in single blessedness. In his eyes there was no bride so beautiful as the "Land of the Lone Star," no wife so dear as its wild "purairas." And to them after a time he returned, oft around the camp-fire entertaining his companions of the chase with an account of his adventures in the Mexican valley—how he had there figured in the various roles of jail-bird, scavenger, friar, and last of all as one of the Free Lances.

THE END.