"Merciful God! they must be very grand people to talk so foolish!" ejaculated the Senora who knew enough English to grasp the import of Mrs. Forest's words. Although she had never devoted much time to the study of the language, she had picked up a smattering of English from the Americans and Englishmen who annually stopped at the Posada on their way to the mines in the interior of the country in which much foreign capital was invested.

"Why, there's Jack!" cried Bessie, dropping lightly from the box into the arms of two peons who stood below to assist her to the ground.

"Hello, Jack!" she continued, advancing, "I'll wager you didn't expect to see us this morning, did you?"

The Captain noted the ring of sarcasm in her voice as she concluded.

"I confess I did not, Cousin," he answered, descending the veranda to meet them. "What in the world brought you here?" he asked, taking his cousin's hand.

"Oh! we thought we'd like to see a little more of the world before we became too old to enjoy traveling," she answered, with a peculiar little laugh that was all her own and which usually conveyed a sense of uneasiness to those toward whom it was directed.

"How much longer are you going to stand there asking idiotic questions?" broke in Mrs. Forest with a furious glance at her son. "Can't you see, I'm nearly dead?"

"Really, Mother, I'm very sorry," returned the Captain, "but it's all your own fault, you know. Why did you come?"

"Our fault—why did we come? It's your fault—your fault, sir!" she almost screamed, and ended by laughing hysterically.

Colonel Van Ashton who had been nursing his wrath all night long while being bumped over a rough road in an old broken-down stagecoach, required but the sight of his nephew to cause an explosion. He had not closed his eyes during the entire night, and like his sister, Mrs. Forest, was in a state of collapse. His usually florid complexion had turned to a brilliant crimson, giving him the appearance of an overheated furnace.

He regarded himself as a martyr, nay, worse—an innocent victim of fate who, entirely against his will, had been cruelly dragged into the present intolerable situation by the caprice of his accursed nephew.

He had suffered long and patiently all that mortal flesh and blood could endure. But, thank God, there were compensations in this life after all—the object of his wrath stood before him at last.

"So this, sir, is what you call returning to nature, is it?" he cried in a hoarse roar, controlling his voice with difficulty and glaring savagely at his nephew.

"It's evidently not to your liking, Uncle," replied the Captain quietly, doing his best to keep from laughing in his face.

"Liking!"—roared the Colonel again, his voice raised to the breaking pitch—"I never thought I'd get to hell so soon! Why, sir," he continued, knocking a cloud of dust from his hat, "this isn't nature, this is geology! I don't see how you ever discovered the damned country! The wind-swept wastes of Dante's Inferno are verdant in comparison! You're mad, there's no doubt of it!" he fumed, stamping up and down.

"Do you know," he went on, stopping abruptly before his nephew, "they say that, before you left Newport, you ran your touring-car over the cliff into the sea—a machine that must have cost you fifteen thousand at least!"

"Well, what if I did? It served me right for deserting my horse for the devil's toy. Thank God, I'm rid of the infernal machine!"

"Look here, Jack Forest—" but the Colonel's voice broke in a violent fit of coughing.

It required but little discernment on the part of the Mexicans to perceive that the meeting between Captain Forest and his family was not what might be termed particularly felicitous. Even Senora Fernandez was quick enough to perceive that things were going from bad to worse, and in an effort to smooth matters, she stepped forward and in her best English said: "Senor Capitan, why did you tell me not zat ze ladies were coming? I might 'ave prepared been for zem."

"My good Senora," responded the Captain, regarding her with a look of extreme compassion, "I never dreamt of such a misfortune."

"Just the sort of answer one might expect from you! Not a word of welcome or sympathy! I always said you were the most selfish mortal alive!" cried Mrs. Forest bitterly.

"Senoras, I pray for you, come into ze house at once!" spoke up the Senora again, turning entreatingly to the ladies. "I you promess, zat wen you an orange an' cup of coffee 'ave 'ad, you will yourselves better feel."

"The Senora's right," broke in the Captain. "Come into the house and when you've—" but his sentence was cut short by the sharp report of a pistol, followed in quick succession by two other shots, and a moment later a man, breathless and without coat or hat, and his shirt and trousers in tatters, rushed among them.

"Hide me quick, somebody!" he cried. "For God's sake—the posse—" but before he could finish, a troop of men, armed with six-shooters and Winchester rifles, burst from the cover of bushes that lined the highroad.

"There he is yonder, boys, behind that man!" cried their leader excitedly, a small, thick-set, broad-shouldered man with sandy hair and beard and florid complexion. The others, following the direction indicated by him, seized the fugitive who had taken refuge behind Captain Forest and dragged him hurriedly beneath one of the cottonwood trees, over a lower branch of which they flung a rope. Their work was so expeditious that, before the spectators could realize what was happening, they had bound his hands behind his back and fastened one end of the rope about his neck.

"Stand clear, everybody!" commanded the leader, his gaze sweeping the throng. Then turning to his men, he said: "When I give the word, boys, let him swing!"

"Don't, boys—don't!" cried the prisoner in a despairing, supplicating voice, dropping on his knees. "For God's sake—give me a chance—" but a jerk of the rope cut short his words which ended in an inarticulate gurgle in his throat.

"They are going to hang him—it's murder!" gasped Mrs. Forest, clinging to her trembling, terrified maid who was already on the verge of fainting.

"Gentlemen," said the Colonel, stepping forward, "I object to such an unheard-of proceeding! You have no right to hang a man without a trial."

"Say, old punk," cried the leader, turning savagely on the Colonel, "who's a runnin' this show?" The well-delivered blow of a sledge-hammer could not have been more crushing in its effect on the Colonel than were the words of the leader; he was completely silenced. Greatly to his credit, however, he stood his ground. He was no coward, for he had faced death and been wounded more than once in his younger days on the field of battle, and had he possessed a weapon at the moment, he would have snuffed out the leader's life as deliberately as he would have blown out the light of a candle, regardless of consequences. But recognizing the carrion with which he had to deal, and the futility of further interference, he quietly shrugged his shoulders, smiled and pulled the end of his mustache. The hanging might proceed so far as he was concerned.

"Gentlemen," spoke up the Captain, "what has this man done?"

"You'll learn that when we're through with him!" replied the leader.

Even were there no doubt of the prisoner's guilt and hanging a well-deserved punishment, Captain Forest, nevertheless, liked fair play. The blood surged to his face. His fighting instincts and spirit of resentment were thoroughly aroused. He had seen men hanged and shot down before in the most summary manner, some of them afterward proving to have been victims of gross error and brute passion. He also knew how futile it was to argue with men whose passions were roused to the fighting pitch. The Colonel's interference was an instance of how little such men could be influenced. It was absurd to look for moderation under the circumstances. There was only one way to save the prisoner—the use of the same means employed by the lynchers, namely, force. Whence could such interference come? How could a man single-handed cope with a well-armed body of men of their type? Only a miracle could save the prisoner and the intervention of a miracle is always a slender prop upon which to lean.

"Now, boys," continued the leader, turning to his men, "get ready—" but his voice was drowned by a chorus of cries and screams from the women.

"Silence!" he roared. "Stop that damn noise!"

"I would like to know, sir, who gave you authority to shut our mouths?" and Blanch Lennox planted herself squarely before him. So astonished was he by her sudden appearance and outburst, that he fell back a pace. He seemed to have lost his voice, and only after much hemming and hawing, managed to stammer an awkward apology while vainly endeavoring to conceal his embarrassment.

"Ladies," he finally began, removing his hat in an attempt at politeness, "I'm powerful sorry to be obliged to perform this painful duty contrary to your wishes, but the law must be obeyed. We've been a chasin' this feller, who's the most notorious scoundrel in the country, through the mountains for the last three weeks, and now we've got him, I reckon we ain't a goin' ter let him get away. Is we, boys?" and he turned confidently to his men.

"You bet we ain't!" they responded.

"No, ladies," echoed their leader in turn, "not if we know it. Besides, we've got permission from the Mexican authorities to do with him as we like. I guess," he added, "they'll be about as glad to be rid of him as we are. And now, ladies," he continued, "if you don't want to witness as pretty a hanging as ever took place in these parts, you'll take my advice and retire into the house as soon as possible."

But no one stirred. The tall handsome woman still stood before him unmoved, and he was beginning to realize that her gaze was becoming more difficult to meet. Somewhat disconcerted, he began again in his most persuasive tone.

"Ladies, please don't interrupt the course of the law by staying around here any longer than's necessary—for hang he will!" he added.

Still no one showed the slightest sign of complying with his wishes. The situation was becoming intolerable.

"Ladies," he began again, and this time rather peremptorily, "you'll greatly oblige us by retiring at once."

"We'll not move a step until you take the rope from that man's neck," said Blanch firmly and unabashed, still holding her ground. Her words acted like a challenge. His temper was thoroughly roused, it being a question whether he or a lot of women should have their way. He, Jim Blake, overpowered by a mob of sentimental, hysterical women—not while he lived!

"Then, ladies," he answered curtly, placing his hat firmly on his head, "if you won't go into the house, you'll have to see him swing, that's all!" and quickly detailing half his men who lined up before the spectators with cocked rifles, he shouted to the others behind them holding the rope: "Boys, when I count three, do your work!" There was no mistaking his words. The prisoner uttered a half-articulate groan.

"One—" slowly counted Blake.

The Mexicans crossed themselves and began to mutter prayers. Women screamed.

"Two—three—" but simultaneously with the word three, was heard the report of a pistol, and the men pulling on the rope rolled on the ground, a hopelessly entangled mass of arms and legs. The rope had been severed just above the prisoner's head, and when the smothered oaths of the men mingled with the screams of the women had subsided, Dick Yankton with pistol in hand was seen leaning out over the veranda rail.

"I reckon there won't be any hanging at the old Posada this morning, Jim Blake," he said, calmly covering the latter with his weapon.

"Well, darn my skin!" gasped Blake. "Where did you come from?"

"Oh, I just dropped around," replied Dick, unconcernedly.

"Now, gentlemen," he continued, addressing the men, "I've got the drop on Blake, and if any one of you moves hand or foot I'll send him to a warmer place than this in pretty quick time."

"Don't mind me, boys—turn loose on him!" cried Blake pluckily, but nobody seemed inclined to obey.

"It won't do, Jim," spoke up one of his men. "We ain't a going to see you killed before our eyes. Besides, it's Dick Yankton."

"Jack!" called out Dick, "free the prisoner and be quick about it!"

"You're interfering with the law!" roared Blake, as the Captain proceeded to obey Dick's command.

"I know it," replied Dick; "it isn't the first time I've interfered with it either. Besides, I don't see why I haven't got as good a right to it as you or any other man." Blake sputtered and squirmed helplessly as he faced Dick's weapon, not daring to lift a hand.

"What objection have you got to our ridding the earth of this damned scoundrel, I'd like to know?" he asked, choking with rage.

"Oh, as to that, I've got several, Jim Blake, and one of them is—I don't like to see a man hanged before breakfast. It sort of takes away one's appetite, you know," he added, coolly eyeing his adversary over the barrel of his pistol.

"Well, if you ain't the most impudent cuss I ever seen!" cried Blake, by this time almost on the point of exploding.

"Perhaps I am," answered Dick, the faintest smile playing about the corners of his mouth. "You're putting up a pretty big bluff, Jim, but I happen to be holding the cards in this game and I rather think you'll stay and see it out.

"Bob Carlton," he continued, addressing the prisoner whom the Captain had freed, "there's a black horse in the corral back of the house; jump on him just as he is and make tracks out of here as almighty fast as you know how!"

"Thank you, Dick, I'll not forget you!" cried Carlton, starting in the direction of the corral but, catching sight of Miss Van Ashton, he stopped short. "I—I beg your pardon, Madame," he stammered, "but would you mind telling me your name?"

"I can't see what business that is of yours!" replied Bessie curtly and with a toss of the head, turning her back upon him.

"I meant no offense, Madame—I—"

"Van Ashton's her name," said the Captain.

"Van Ashton!" he exclaimed.

"You had better be moving, Carlton—you damn fool!" came Dick's angry voice. "The next time you're in for a funeral I may not be around to stop it!"

Carlton needed no further urging. The sound of a horse going at full speed was presently heard on the road beyond the Posada.

"Don't any one move," said Dick quietly, as all listened in silence to the sounds which grew fainter and fainter until they ceased altogether in the distance.

"He's got a good mile start by this time," said Dick at length, coolly lowering his pistol and returning it to his pocket. "Gentlemen," he continued, leisurely descending the veranda, "you're at liberty to follow him if you like."

"After him, boys!" yelled Blake, suddenly aroused to fresh action.

"It's no use, Jim," said one of his men, "our hosses is cleaned blowed."

"Damnation!" growled Blake, tugging nervously at his beard. "And now, Dick Yankton," he continued, confronting him squarely with both feet spread wide apart and his hands thrust to his elbows in his trouser pockets, "the question is, what's to be done with you? I just guess we'll make an example of you for interfering with the law."

"And I guess you won't do anything of the kind, Jim Blake, because there isn't a white man in the country that will help you do it."

"The devil!" ejaculated Blake, completely taken aback by Dick's coolness.

"I guess Dick's about right there, Jim," spoke up another of his men.

Blake was about to continue the argument, but realizing that the sentiment of his men was not with him and that his position was growing momentarily more ridiculous, he ceased abruptly. Rough though he was and of the swash-buckler type, he was neither insensible to the humor of the situation nor to the nerve it had taken on Dick's part to hold twenty armed men at bay single-handed. It is usually a difficult matter to pocket one's pride, especially if one sees ridicule lurking just around the corner, but few men were capable of resisting the charm of Dick's personality for long.

"Come, Jim, be reasonable," he said, laying his hand familiarly on Blake's shoulder; "Bob Carlton saved my life once and now we're quits."

"He did? Well, that's the only good thing the sneakin' skunk ever done! Why didn't you tell us that before?"

"Because you didn't give me time. You would have hung him first and then listened to what I had to say afterwards."

"Hum!" ejaculated Blake, "I guess you're about right there."

"Boys," continued Dick, turning to the others, "I'm mighty sorry to have spoiled your fun, but I'll see that you don't regret your visit to Santa Fe. Come into the house and I'll tell how it happened. The cigars and the drinks are on me!"

"Well, as I said before, Dick," exclaimed Blake, "you're the cussedest, most contrariest feller I ever seen. You got the best of us this time, but I guess we'll about get even with you on the drinks before we're through—won't we, boys?" and amid a chorus of laughter and good-humored exclamations, the men, followed by Dick and Blake, crowded into the house.

"What a country!" gasped Mrs. Forest after the last of them had disappeared. "Have people here nothing to do but murder one another?" she asked in a despairing voice, sniffing vigorously at the bottle of salts her maid handed her.

"Ze Saints be praised, zey do not!" cried the Senora who by this time had regained her composure. "Such a zing 'as happened nevair before."

"They are a little more free-handed out here than we are," remarked the Captain. "Where we come from, people allow a man to go free after exhausting all the resources of the law, while here, they quietly hang a scoundrel when they catch him without making any fuss about it. It's much simpler, you know."

"Beautiful!" echoed the Colonel.



VIII

After much persuasion and further caustic remarks on the country and a people whose chief occupation seemed to be that of shooting and hanging one another, Mrs. Forest was finally induced to enter the house, leaving Blanch and Bessie seated on the bench beneath the cottonwood tree where they had collapsed, the result of the shock their nerves had sustained.

Their presence seemed as incongruous with their surroundings as that of some delicate hot-house flower blooming in the midst of the desert.

"Could you have believed it if you hadn't seen it?" asked Bessie, the first to break the silence. "Is it all real, or are we still dreaming? I wish somebody would pinch me, my wits are so scattered," and she passed her hand across her eyes as though to dispel some dreadful nightmare.

"I never imagined," replied her companion in a vague uncertain tone of voice, like one laboring under the influence of a narcotic, "that such people existed anywhere outside of books, and yet the samples to which we have just been introduced make characters of fiction look tame in comparison. Oh, dear!" she burst forth, "who could have imagined it?"

"What a transition—I can't understand it!" said Bessie. "I feel like one who has just dropped from the sky to earth."

"No wonder! I, too, am still seeing stars. Jack certainly must be mad, else how could he have ever picked out such a forsaken land whose inhabitants seem to consist chiefly of ruffians and black women?"

"It's simply incomprehensible after all he's seen of the world," replied Bessie. "Did you notice how he enjoyed our discomfiture? How it was all he could do to keep from laughing in our faces?"

"The brute!" cried Blanch.

"If we had only realized to what we were coming—" Bessie began.

"Oh, it's too late to say that!" interrupted Blanch. "Now that I'm here, I'm not going to turn back; I'm going to see this thing through. And what's more," she added with unmistakable emphasis, "I'm going to see that woman! Have you noticed any one that looks like her?" she asked cautiously, lowering her voice and looking about suspiciously, as she rose from her seat.

"Pshaw!" laughed Bessie, also rising and shaking the dust from her skirt. "You've scarcely talked of anything else since we left home. Why, I really believe you are beginning to be jealous of this creature of your imagination. It's too absurd to suppose that Jack—"

"Is it any more impossible than the people and things we have just encountered?"

"Nonsense! Jack in love with some half-breed—that dusky beauty in breeches who rides astride, and whom he happened to mention to us? It's preposterous!"

"My dear," resumed Blanch calmly, "don't deceive yourself. My woman's intuition tells me that I'm right. Jack's notion of beginning a new life is all nonsense—there's a deeper reason than that for this change in him. Take my word for it, there's a woman at the bottom of it for what possible attraction could this horrid country and its people have for a civilized being?"

"I can't believe it," answered Bessie; "you know how fastidious Jack is. Besides it was only a fleeting glance that he caught of the woman he mentioned—and that in the twilight."

"A glance is quite enough for a fool to fall in love with a phantom," retorted Blanch warmly, thrusting the ground vigorously with the point of her sunshade.

"They say," she went on, "that these dark beauties of the South possess a peculiar fascination of their own—that they have a way of captivating men before they realize what's happening. They sort of hypnotize them, you know."

"But not a man of Jack's type!"

"Oh, I don't mean to infer that she's beautiful," continued Blanch. "Attractive she may be, but how could anything so common be really beautiful? It's not that which worries me—it's the state of his mind. He has evidently reached a crisis. As long as I can keep him in sight he's safe, but should he be left here alone with one of these women in his present frame of mind, there's no knowing what might happen. Any woman if fairly attractive and a schemer, can marry almost any man she has a mind to. You know," she added, "he's not given to talking without a purpose and usually acts even though he lives to repent of it afterwards. Why, if he were left here, he might marry from ennui, who knows? One hears of such things."

"Heavens!" ejaculated Bessie, "it makes one shudder to think of it! Hush!" she added, nodding in the direction of the house where the Captain appeared in the doorway and halted, regarding them with a mixed expression of curiosity and amusement.

"Well," he said at length, descending to where they stood, "how do first impressions of the place strike you? It's not so dull, after all, is it?" he added, concealing his mirth with difficulty.

"It's charming," replied Blanch in her richest vein of sarcasm, addressing him for the first time since her arrival. "What delightful surroundings, and what congenial people one meets here!"

The Captain burst into an uproarious fit of laughter. The sight of Blanch had sent a sudden thrill through him that told him plainly enough how deeply rooted had been his love and that he had not yet succeeded in eradicating it entirely from his heart as he had supposed.

The spark of the old love still smoldered within him, and would she succeed again in fanning it into flame? He had not forgotten, however, that he had suffered, and her presence acted like some wonderful balm to his wounded soul. It was his turn now and he could afford to humor her. Though there was nothing triumphant in his manner, he, nevertheless, enjoyed that sneaking feeling of satisfaction which most of us experience on beholding the discomfiture of those who have treated us lightly. Moreover, he thoroughly realized what the coming of Blanch and his family meant. They had come to laugh at him and his surroundings—to ridicule his ideas. The great harlot world had come to pooh-pooh—to scoff and laugh him out of his convictions, and no one knew better than he did what the mighty power and influence of the great civilized guffaw meant. For had he not, during his diplomatic career, seen the primitive man laughed out of his cool, naked blessedness into a modern, cheap pair of sweltering pantaloons? But things were now equal, and this promised to be the most exciting diplomatic game in which he had yet engaged. The defeat of Spain and the annexation of the Philippines were trifles in comparison. And he decided then and there to make the most of it—that come what might, all who entered this game would pay the price to the last farthing. Time and circumstances would prove who was right—they or he.

"Do you know," he said at length, "I don't pity you a bit; it serves you right for coming."

"Pity?" retorted Bessie. "Do we look like a pair of beggars that have come two thousand miles to crave pity at the feet of the high and mighty Captain Forest? Your condescension, Cousin, is insufferable," she added.

"I was just thinking," he resumed, thoroughly enjoying his cousin's wrath, "that you had better drop your silly affectations and spoiled ways while here."

"Really!" burst out Bessie again, her face flushing with growing indignation.

"I do," he returned placidly, "for somehow, the people about here don't seem to appreciate such things."

"I can readily believe it," answered Blanch with a contemptuous laugh and hauteur of manner that were almost insulting. "I don't wonder you feel uneasy on our account considering that we have never enjoyed the advantages their social standards offer. We trust, however, for the sake of old friendship, that you will overlook our shortcomings. A lesson in manners might not be lost on us," she added with a withering glance and tone that would have reduced any other man to a sere and yellow leaf.

She paused, her delicately gloved hand resting lightly on the handle of her sunshade on which she leaned, throwing the graceful outline of her tall slender figure into clear relief against the green background of trees and shrubs. A strange light came into her beautiful blue eyes, softening the expression of her face; a face that had been the hope and despair of many a man; a face that was not alone beautiful but alive and interesting; a face into which all men longed to gaze and once seen could never be forgotten.

Only one man had ever resisted the power and fascination of that face; the man whom she had flung from her in an ungovernable fit of passion; the man whom she either had come to claim as her own again, or to humiliate as he had humiliated her. Who could guess the real motive that prompted her to humble her pride so far as to follow him? Was it love or hatred? Who could say? Her delicate, coral lips curled with just the suggestion of a sneer as she raised her eyes to his again and said in a tone of contempt: "So this is the place where your wild woman lives—" but the words died on her lips. Her head came up with a jerk and her figure suddenly straightened and stiffened as her gaze became riveted on the face of Chiquita who stood just opposite on the veranda lightly poised with one foot on the steps.

It would have been interesting to have read the thoughts of these two women as they stood silently confronting one another, each taking the measure of the other.

The contrast between the two could not have been more striking. The soft, delicate, well-groomed figure of Blanch, the accomplished woman of the world, with eyes intoxicating as wine and a glowing wealth of golden hair, tempting and alluring as the luxuriance of old Rome at the height of her triumphs before her decadence set in—the last fair breath of her ancient glory—the best and fairest that modern civilization had produced. She had no need of the artificial head-gear and upholstery with which the modern society belle is wont to bolster up herself. There was not the slightest trace of rouge on her lips or cheeks. She had learned that simple food, fresh air and sleep and exercise were the only preservatives for the form and complexion. Spoiled though she was, she was genuine to the core.

On the other hand, what the symmetrical well-rounded lines of Chiquita's figure lost by the unfair comparison of her worn and faded dress with that of the latest Parisian creation, was more than compensated for by the heavy luxuriant masses of blue-black hair, straight nose, large, dark piercing eyes that shone from beneath delicately penciled, broad arching brows, and the mysterious hawk-like wildness of her gaze and appearance and general air of strength and power, baffling and inscrutable as the origin of her race; a face and figure which exemplified the perfect type of a race that carried one back to the forgotten days of ancient Egypt and India.

Truly, twice blessed or cursed by the gods was he to be loved by two such women; the one fashion's, the other nature's child.

The look of embarrassment on Captain Forest's face, together with the ludicrousness of the situation, caused Bessie to burst into a sudden fit of laughter into which Blanch, in spite of herself, was irresistibly drawn. Fortunately for the Captain, he did not entirely lose his presence of mind as one is apt to do who unexpectedly finds himself between two tigers about to spring. He did the only sensible thing a man could do under the circumstances. He retired precipitately, leaving the field to whomsoever wished it most.

"The Senoritas laugh," said Chiquita at length, the first to speak. There was a strange light in her eyes as she slowly descended the veranda and came toward them. The sound of her full, rich, musical voice, colored with a soft accent that was pleasing to the ear, instantly brought Blanch and Bessie to themselves.

"Perhaps," she began again calmly, "it is because I am poor?"

"Oh, no, Senorita, how could you imagine—" exclaimed Blanch, recovering her breath.

"Then perhaps it is because I am an Indian and red, not white like yourselves?"

"Are you an Indian, Senorita?" asked Blanch. "I thought you were a Mexican."

"And if I were, I would not be ashamed of it!"

"What a strange creature!" thought Bessie.

"But why did the Senoritas laugh when they saw me?" persisted Chiquita, her expression softening a bit, a faint smile illumining her face.

"Believe me, Senorita," replied Blanch, "we were not laughing at you at all. We were laughing at Captain Forest."

"Ah, the Senor!" ejaculated Chiquita.

"Yes," continued Blanch, "we had already heard of you through Captain Forest, and—I—" she hesitated, "I really can't explain because you wouldn't understand, you know."

"But I do understand, Senorita," answered Chiquita quietly. "You do not deceive me, and since you refuse to tell me why you laughed, I shall be obliged to tell you. I think I can guess the truth."

"Really, I'm curious!" and Blanch smiled compassionately.

"Ah, you think I can't read your face," and Chiquita smiled in turn. "Senorita," she continued with sudden emphasis, "you love the Senor!" Blanch started, the attack was so sudden, her face coloring in spite of her endeavor to conceal her confusion.

"Yes, Senorita, you love him."

"How do you know I love him?" laughed Blanch lightly in turn, by this time thoroughly mistress of herself. "Why, you have only met me for the first time!"

"How do I know? Because I am a woman. I saw you as you spoke to him. Your whole manner betrayed you—your voice, your eyes. Yes, Senorita," she added with growing passion, fixing her dark piercing eyes on those of Blanch, "you laughed because a poor girl like me of a different race and color, a race despised by you white people, should have imagined that Captain Forest might possibly cast his eyes upon her—"

"Senorita!" cried Blanch protestingly.

"It is the truth," continued Chiquita passionately, "and what is more, I will tell you frankly that I—I, too, love the Senor!"

"I thought so!" exclaimed Blanch.

"Yes, I love him—love him as you do—love him as you can never love him, Senorita!"

"What makes you think so?" asked Blanch, endeavoring to stifle the emotion Chiquita's passionate words aroused within her.

"I know it," she answered quietly; "something tells me so. And should he not love me as I love him, my life will go out of me swiftly and silently like the waters of the streams in summer when the rains cease; my soul will become barren and parched like the desert, and I shall wither and die."

"Die?" echoed Blanch. "Nobody dies of love nowadays, Senorita," and she laughed lightly.

"Perhaps not among your people, but with Indians it is different. When we love it is terrible—our passion becomes our life, our whole existence! Such a confession sounds absurd perhaps, but you assumed an air of superiority—racial superiority, I mean—a thing which I know to be as false as it is presumptuous. I might assume the airs and attitude of one of your race if I chose, but you laughed, and the race-pride in me cries out that I should be to you what I really am—an Indian, not that which I have learned and borrowed from the white race."

"How extraordinary!" thought Blanch. Surely such passion was short lived and a weak admission on the part of her rival. She was a true character of melodrama—one which she had seen a hundred times on the stage. The battle was hers already—she would win. She heaved a sigh of relief, and drawing herself up to her full height, assumed an attitude of ease, an air of patronage and condescension that only Blanch Lennox could adopt. She could afford to be generous to a child, treat with lenience this clever ingenue who in this age could die, or at least imagine herself dying of love.

"Perhaps," resumed Chiquita, with an air of naivete that seemed perfectly natural to her, "you women do not love as passionately as your darker sisters?"

"Oh, I don't know about that, Senorita," answered Blanch with warmth. "At any rate, you in all probability will have an opportunity to judge that for yourself."

Chiquita gave a little laugh, then said: "Senorita, you love Captain Forest and so do I. Let it, therefore, be a fair fight between us, and in order that you may know you can trust me, I give you this," and drawing a small silver-mounted dagger from out her hair, she handed it to Blanch who took it wonderingly.

"It is often safer," she added, "for a man to go unarmed in this land than for a woman. But as I said, I shall henceforth be to you what I am—an Indian. It is what a woman of my people would do were she to meet you in my country under similar circumstances; what I would have done had I met you before I came here. The knife signifies that, with it goes the sharp edge of my tongue—that I shall take no unfair advantage of you."

Blanch toyed musingly with the pretty two-edged knife, admiring its richly carved silver handle. Surely she was right after all. Chiquita was a true child of the South whose passions subsided as quickly as they burst into flame. And as for the knife, it would make an excellent paper-cutter.

"Oh, dear, this is too absurd!" she exclaimed. And no longer able to control herself, she burst into a peal of laughter in which was easily detected the scorn, good humor and pity she felt for her would-be rival.

Perhaps Chiquita was as much puzzled by Blanch's behavior as the latter was by hers, for all the while Blanch laughed, she also regarded her with an expression of mingled curiosity and amusement.

"Senorita," said Blanch at length, heaving a sigh, "who are you?"

The latter did not reply immediately. Her face took on an earnest expression and for some moments she stood silent, gazing straight out before her as though oblivious to her surroundings. Then, suddenly recollecting herself, she said:

"I am a Tewana, and am called the Chiquita. My father was the Whirlwind, the War Chief of my people."

"The Whirlwind?" echoed Blanch. "What an appropriate name for a savage!"

"Ah, but you should have seen him! He was the tallest man of the tribe."

"Do you know," said Blanch musingly, "I fancy you must be something like him, Senorita."

"In spirit perhaps, but only a little," she answered. "I often wish that I were more like him, for although he was a child in many things, he was a man nevertheless—civilization had not spoilt him."

Again that dreamy, far-away look came into her eyes and again she seemed to forget for the moment the presence of the two girls as her thoughts reverted to the past.

"Senorita," she said at last, "when one like me stands on the threshold midway between savagery and civilization and compares the crudities and at times barbarities of the one with the luxuries and vices of the other, he often asks himself which is preferable, civilization and its few virtues, or the simple life of the savage. Which, I ask, is the greater—the man who tells the time by the sun and the stars or he who gauges it with the watch? I have listened to your music and gazed upon your art and read your books, but what harmonies compare to nature's—what book contains her truths and hidden mysteries? When I came here I was taught to revere your civilization and I did for a time until the disillusionment came, when I was introduced to the great world of men and discovered how shallow and inadequate it was. Your mechanical devices are wonderful, but as regards your philosophies, the least said of them the better. Spiritually, you stand just where you began centuries ago, and I found that I should be obliged to deny the existence of God if I continued to revere your institutions.

"Believe me, Senorita, for I speak as one who knows both worlds intimately, nature's and man's, that the great symphony of nature, the throb of our Mother Earth, the song of the forest, the voices of the winds and the waters, the mountains and plains, and the glory of the stars and the daily life of man in the fields, are grander by far, and more satisfying and enduring than all the foolish fancies and artificial harmonies ever created by civilized man."

Her words struck home. For the first time Blanch became thoroughly alive to the danger of the situation. This passionate child of the South had changed suddenly to a mature woman, and a chill seized Blanch's heart as she began to realize her depth and power. Again she was all at sea, and in a vain effort to say something, she stammered:

"Senorita, you are certainly the strangest person I ever met!"

"Not strange, only different," laughed Chiquita, throwing back her head and meeting Blanch's full gaze. "Senorita," she continued, "you are beautiful—more beautiful than any woman I have ever beheld. My heart stands still with fear and admiration when I look at you, for men are often foolish enough to love the beautiful women best. I fear this is going to be a bitter struggle, but let us bear one another no malice in order that we may both know that she who triumphs is the better woman." Frank though her words were, they caused Blanch to wince, while a flood of passion which she could ill conceal dyed her cheeks a deep crimson.

"Life's usually as tragic as it is comic," laughed Chiquita lightly, slowly moving in the direction of the highroad. "It's strange, isn't it," she exclaimed, pausing and looking back, "that a queen and a beggar should dispute the affections of the same man? Such things occur in the fairy-tales one reads in the books in the old Mission, but seldom in real life," and she was gone.



IX

Considering an all-night ride over a rough road in a lumbering old Spanish stagecoach, and the thrilling, harrowing events that succeeded their arrival at the Posada, it is little wonder that Mrs. Forest took to her bed early in the day on the verge of a nervous collapse, or that Colonel Van Ashton, contrary to his habit, retired early in the evening firmly convinced that his nephew was suffering from an acute attack of lunacy which took the form of a mania for everything that was wild and bizarre; everything in fact that was contrary to the Colonel's views of life.

How unfortunate that his nephew had not shown signs of madness earlier! It would have been so easy with the assistance of the family physician and lawyer to have confined him in a private sanitarium. And the Colonel fondly pictured his nephew wandering distractedly through a long suite of padded cells—but, alas! the bird had flown. Such things were always expedited with such felicitous despatch in those parts of the earth inhabited by civilized men, but here where everybody was equally mad, where chaos reigned, and nobody either recognized or respected beings of a superior order, what could be done to check the headlong career of his nephew who with twenty millions was rushing straight to destruction?

No wonder God had long since abandoned this land to his majesty, the devil who, as in the days of Scripture, roamed and roared at will. No one having passed twenty-four hours in the country could possibly doubt that his cup of joy was running over. Where his nephew had concealed his fortune was also a source of mystery to him. He certainly had displayed the diabolical cunning that is characteristic of the mentally deranged. Possibly he had concealed it in Mexico, but to combat the institutions of that land was like attempting to stem the tides.

The thought of those twenty millions tortured the Colonel's mind almost beyond endurance, and he groaned aloud as his imagination pictured them rolling in a bright, glittering stream of gold and silver coins into the gutter for the swine that waited to devour them.

Such were the Colonel's reflections as he sat on the edge of his bed in his shirt sleeves and wearily removed his tight fitting, dust-begrimed, patent-leather shoes with the assistance of his valet.

How his feet and back ached! He wanted sympathy, but got none, the others being too much occupied with their own woes to think of his comfort. On the walls of the room were hung numerous cheap biblical prints—the very things he abominated most. Among them, just over the foot of the bed, on the very spot where first his gaze would alight on opening his eyes in the morning, hung a small colored print of the Madonna. No wonder the people of this land spent so much time crossing themselves and calling upon her for protection—they certainly had cause to. The room, in his opinion, was a veritable rat-hole; the place little better than what one might expect to find in a suburb of hell.

The exertions of the last two days had been more than mortal could endure. Never had he felt so completely fagged, and it was with no little concern that he contemplated the reflection of his face in the small oval mirror which hung on the rough gray plaster wall opposite, just over the small, cheap, brown-stained wooden bureau. The sight of his countenance, as is the case with most of us who have not yet entered the limbo of senile decrepitude and still dare look ourselves in the face, was always a source of extreme satisfaction to him. He held it in the highest esteem as though it were the head of some beautiful antique Apollo, and in his, the Colonel's estimation, was the handsomest face on earth.

Indeed it was a handsome face, and like many others both in and outside of his particular set, he devoted hours to its preservation.

What was John, his valet, for? To press his clothes and run errands? Not at all. He was there to massage that precious face and drive away all harassing signs of care and age by means of a liberal use of cold cream and enamel. In the present instance, barring a sun-scorched nose, his delicately rouged cheeks like his exquisitely manicured finger tips blushed with rose of vermilion like those of the daughters of Judea of old, contrasting favorably with his dark eyes, wavy white hair, and mustache and eyebrows dyed a jet black. His regular features, long slender white hands, and tall erect figure betokened the born aristocrat of the spoiled, luxurious type.

In spite of his determination not to sleep a wink, this overindulged child and arch hypocrite, fell asleep almost the instant his tired head touched the pillow, and would have slept to a comparatively late hour had it not been for the ceaseless crowing of a cock in the barnyard, awakening him at daybreak.

What a land, where people were not even permitted to sleep! Vague apprehensions for the future went flitting through his mind, and, as he lay in bed moodily contemplating through the window the first sunrise he had witnessed in years, he cursed fate and his nephew, and secretly vowed that he would wring that infernal bird's neck at the first opportunity.

Mrs. Forest's mental attitude resembled that of her brother's, but with Blanch and Bessie it was different. The strangeness and novelty of the situation so different from anything they had hitherto experienced, began to interest them in spite of their previous determination to be bored. That evening they had visited the plaza with the Captain and Dick Yankton and had witnessed the dances beneath the great alamos or poplar trees that surrounded the square, braving the risk of contamination which Mrs. Forest had vainly protested would be sure to ensue should they mingle with the populace—the Mexican-Indian rabble of which it was composed—a distinction which only she and the Colonel seemed able to divine, for had it been a garlic-tainted Egyptian or Neapolitan mob, little objection would have been raised to their going. The sights amused and interested them, and after an hour's mild dissipation, they returned to the Posada in time to meet a few of the Senora's guests in the garden, among whom was Padre Antonio. The quaint, inborn courtesy of the well-bred Spaniard was a revelation to them; something they imagined did not exist outside of Spain.

The charm of the Padre's simple manner and ways proved no less irresistible to them than to the rest of the world, and they marveled that he spoke English so well. His intimate knowledge of the people and the customs of the country threw a new light on them, reconciling the girls to many things that had seemed incomprehensible.

The Senora, out of consideration for the ladies, by whose presence she was greatly honored, had relinquished her rooms to them; the best and most comfortably furnished which the Posada afforded.

It was a late hour before the girls retired for the night. There was so much to talk over, and when they did finally lay themselves down to rest, it was with the conviction that Captain Forest was not quite so mad as they had supposed. He was at least a harmless lunatic and in no danger of running amuck.

As for Bessie, the gentle hand of sleep soon closed her eyes, and she slept the sleep of a tired child. With Blanch it was otherwise.

How could she sleep with the face of Chiquita constantly before her and the pangs of jealousy gnawing at her heart? How stupid to have imagined her to be one of those bovine women with large liquid eyes who, figuratively speaking, pass the major portion of their lives standing knee-deep in a pond, gazing stolidly out upon the world; a fat brown wench upon whose hip a man might confidently expect to hang his hat by the time she has attained the age of forty.

Nothing could have been farther from the mark. She might have known that Jack could not have been caught with so thin a bait. All night long she tossed on her pillow, or silently rose to gaze at the stars from the window.

"Oh, if she only were not so beautiful!" she moaned as the first pale streaks of light in the east told her that day had finally dawned, and she crept stealthily back to bed again. Of course Jack, the wretch, was sleeping peacefully—that was the irony of fate! What did he know of suffering? But he would pay for this!

Their rooms overlooked the patio, and from behind an angle of a screen she could look straight across it into the garden beyond as she lay in bed. The bright shafts of the morning sun sifted down through the branches of the trees and lay in patches of gold on the grass and flowers beneath and flooded the patio with light. Above the tops of the trees and one corner of the low roof, the clear, pale blue skyline was just visible. Butterflies and humming-birds darted in and out among the fragrant white clematis and honeysuckle and passion vines that hung from the arcades surrounding the court, or hovered over the fountain and basin of gold fish in its center, edged with grasses and ferns. The notes of the golden oriole and cooing of pigeons and wood-doves mingling with the silvery jingle of an occasional vaquero's spurs, came from the garden beyond.

How peaceful it was! After all, why was the place so unusual, so different from the rest of the world? But forget where one was, and the scene might have been one in Algiers or Egypt, or in a town in Spain or Northern Italy. And why, she asked herself, as her thoughts reverted to Chiquita, was this Indian woman so very different from themselves?

Dress her as they were dressed, and place her in the proper surroundings, and she would easily pass for a Gypsy or a Spaniard. Was there any reason to believe that the queens of Sheba and Semiramis with their tawny skins were any less fair than she, Blanch Lennox, with her rosy, soft white complexion? Or Chiquita a shade darker than Cleopatra, the witch of the Nile, whose beauty caused the downfall of Antony and with it the waning power and splendor of ancient Egypt?

Was her lineage superior to Chiquita's, the descendant of a long line of rulers whose ancestry stretched back into the dim, remote past as ancient as the hills, the record of whose lives and deeds stood inscribed on the ruined temples and palaces scattered throughout the land where they once dwelt at a time when her European ancestors roamed the wilderness half naked and clad in the skins of wild beasts?

White men of eminence had married Indians and their descendants were proud of their lineage. True, Chiquita was an exception just as she towered above most women of her race. And who were they, that they should criticize—vaunt their superiority in the face of the universal scheme of things? Were they really any better? The same passions, longings and aspirations that swayed them, swayed the Red man as well.

Their daily lives were different—their aspirations were directed in different channels, that was all. What was true civilization and culture, any way? Who had ever succeeded in defining them? The so-called civilized world might prattle of culture. Its ideas compared with those of mankind as a whole were purely relative and of a local origin and color, and could not be gauged by a uniform standard of ethics. What pleases the one fails to attract the other. The man in power who talks of culture may be taken seriously by those of his own race who stand by and applaud his words, but remove him from his home surroundings and place him on a footing of equality with those of a different race and environment and his arguments fail to convince.

Did the harangues of Louis the Sixteenth's tormentors convince him of the ethical standards of universal justice, or John Brown's sacrifice the representatives of a slave-holding population?

Which is the most convincing—the example set by the early Spartans, or that of the man who surrounds himself with every luxury and convenience of modern life; the man who reads books and lives in a house and travels by train and automobile, or he who dwells in a tent, who is ignorant of letters, and prefers the slower locomotion of horse and foot? Who is the arbiter of fashion? The sun shines alike on the just and the unjust, the great world still continues to laugh and goes on its way in spite of men's philosophies, but tear up the map, as the French say, and where are our standards and codes?

Prove it if you can, that the wild flower in the meadow is less beautiful than the one reared beneath the hand of the gardener. Argue and theorize as we will, our sophistries count for little when we are brought face to face with the realities of life. The law of compensation and certainty of facts still hold the balance when the bed-rock of human existence is reached. One might as well expect the mountains to slip into the sea, or the stars to pause in their courses to hearken to the voice of a modern Joshua as a man in love with a vision of beauty, to listen to ethics.

It was quite evident that somebody had lied. In fact, all men of her race had been lying from the beginning of time, for what, after all, did civilization amount to if it were not convincing? Did it ever soothe a wounded heart, stifle the pangs of jealousy, or was it ample compensation for the loss of the great prize of life—happiness?

Civilization and blindness were fast becoming synonymous terms, and there were even moments when one almost fancied one heard the laughter of the gods. Let the dull brute civilized herd sweep by, all its moralizing and sophistries could not arouse so much as a single heart-beat where sentiment was concerned.

The truth of these convictions surged in upon her with overwhelming force. Had Jack also noted them, she asked herself.

Possibly, but not, perhaps, with the keener intuition of the woman. She breathed hard. Hot tears of rage, jealousy and disappointment surged to her eyes. She could endure it no longer—she felt as though she would stifle. Suddenly she sat bolt upright in bed and then sprang to the floor, noticing for the first time the pretty little Mexican girl, Rosita, who at Bessie's summons, had entered and deposited a tray containing oranges, chocolate and tortillas on the table in the center of the room.

The dark circles beneath Blanch's eyes and her general appearance of a disheveled Eve told Bessie how little she had slept.

"I knew you were thinking of her," she said, throwing herself back in the pillows and stretching her arms. Her eyelids drooped for a moment over her great violet eyes and she laughed lightly with the contentment of one whose heart is free.

"Of course I am," returned Blanch, coloring and biting her lip. "What else should I be thinking of?"

"Do you know, I rather like her," continued Bessie, raising on one elbow and stretching herself again with the delicious satisfaction of one who has slept soundly and well.

"And I hate her!" cried Blanch. And seizing Chiquita's dagger which lay on the table beside the tray, she plunged it viciously into an orange.



X

Things began to assume a more favorable aspect. Even Mrs. Forest had plucked up enough courage to venture beyond the confines of the Posada's garden.

Late one afternoon as she with Blanch and Bessie descended the veranda steps, preparatory to a stroll through the town, a horseman, dressed in the height of Mexican fashion, shot suddenly round the curve in the road at full gallop and drew rein before them, tossing the dust raised by his animal's hoofs into their faces.

Dust and a horse's nose thrust suddenly into Mrs. Forest's face could hardly improve a temper already strained to the breaking point.

"Are people beasts—mere cattle of the fields to be trampled upon by a horse?" she gasped, as soon as she had recovered sufficiently from her surprise.

"A thousand pardons—I did not see you!" replied the horseman, his English colored with a slight accent.

"What are people's eyes for?" returned Mrs. Forest, making no attempt to conceal her irritation.

"Mrs. Forest, I see you do not recognize me," answered the horseman, smiling and raising his broad-brimmed sombrero which partially concealed his features.

"Don Felipe Ramirez!" cried Blanch and Bessie in the same breath. "How," exclaimed Blanch, "could you expect us to recognize you in that costume? Why are you masquerading in such a disguise?" Don Felipe laughed as he swung himself lightly from the saddle.

"It's the costume of our people," he answered, shaking them cordially by the hand. "It's the one they prefer, without which one cannot always command their respect. They detest modern innovations and cling to the customs of their ancestors. It's a bit of old Mexico, that's all. But what brings you here?" he asked, changing the topic of conversation. "Did you drop from the clouds? I would as soon have thought of finding oranges growing on the cactus as seeing you here."

"Only a pleasure trip combined with a little exploration on our own account," answered Blanch indifferently. "We hope," she continued, "to emulate the example of the old Spanish Conquistadores—some of your ancestors perhaps?"

"Then may your wanderings lead you southward. My hacienda lies but twenty miles from here, and from this moment, it is placed at your disposition. Not in the polite terms of the proverbial Spanish etiquette which presents the visitor with everything and yet nothing at all, but actually. Indeed, I shall expect to see you there soon. The life will interest you, I know."

"We certainly shall avail ourselves of the rare privilege, Don Felipe," said Bessie. "Do you intend stopping here?" she asked.

"For a few days, yes. A room is always waiting for me here."

"How delightful!" exclaimed Blanch. "We shall expect to see a great deal of you. In the meantime, we shall visit the town and shall see you this evening. Until then, a Dios, as you Spaniards say. You observe, we are making rapid progress in the language," she added, smiling and glancing back at him over her shoulder as they moved away in the direction of the highroad.

"What a strange costume for a man like Don Felipe to wear! It's as gay and extravagant as a woman's!" said Bessie as soon as they were out of hearing.

"It's becoming though," answered Blanch. "This is truly the land of surprises. I wonder what will happen next?"

"What can have brought them here, to this out-of-the-way place?" mused Don Felipe, throwing one arm lightly over the neck of his horse as he leaned gently against the animal.

Don Felipe Ramirez was young and handsome—the handsomest and wealthiest man in all Chihuahua. One who measured his lands not by acres, but by hundreds of square miles, over which roamed vast herds of horses, cattle and sheep, and of which Chiquita might have been mistress had she so chosen. Within this vast domain were situated numerous villages of Mexican and Indian populations, subject in a measure to his command. His word, where it did not conflict with the central Government, was law; but Don Felipe, selfish and unprincipled though he was by nature, was too easy going ever to think of making unscrupulous use of such power. So long as things went smoothly, he was the last man to exercise his almost unlimited authority for the mere pleasure of dominating others as many men might were they placed in his position.

His leniency in governing, his lavish manner of living, and a way he had of fraternizing with his people on occasions—the latter prompted not from motives of generosity, but purely from those of vanity and a love of popularity—made him fairly popular among his subjects. It was when Don Felipe wanted something in particular that he became dangerous, especially if that something lay within his jurisdiction. Then indeed, was he one to be feared.

His appearance was striking; a swarthy complexion, thick, shiny, black curly hair and mustache, lustrous black eyes and delicate features, and a lithe sinewy body, every movement of which was cat-like and expressive of treachery.

His high-crowned, broad-brimmed sombrero of gray felt was richly embroidered with gold and silver. A slender, pale yellow satin tie adorned his soft white, heavily frilled shirt front. His soft gray jacket and leggins of goat skin, also ornamented with gold and silver buttons and embroidery, were slashed at the sleeves below the elbow and knee and interlaced with filmy gold cords from beneath which shone a pale yellow satin facing embroidered with tiny red flowers. A gay scarlet silken banda from beneath which peeped the silver hilt of a knife, encircled his slender waist, while his feet were encased in russet tanned boots adorned with spurs inlaid with gold and silver and which tinkled like fairy bells with every step he took. The trappings of his horse were also heavily inlaid with silver. Theatrical though his costume was, it became him well and harmonized perfectly with his surroundings, completing the picture of a Spanish Don, the representative of a past era. A costume that was only to be seen in the remoter parts of the country—one which was becoming rarer each day.

Four years had elapsed since he had last looked upon the familiar scenes about him. Nothing appeared to have changed during that time as his gaze wandered from the old Posada to the garden beyond. He sighed, and a momentary expression of pain and weariness passed across his countenance as he silently surveyed the scene which recalled memories whose bitterness was enough to overwhelm a man of maturer character and years.

In the Indian pueblo, La Jara, had lived the beautiful mestiza girl, Pepita Delaguerra, with whom he had fallen in love in early youth.

The gentle, confiding nature of Pepita was ill suited to that of the passionate, impulsive Felipe, and proved her undoing. For, when old Don Juan, Felipe's father, heard of his son's infatuation, he immediately packed him off to the City of Mexico with the injunction not to return under a year. An obscure half-caste for a daughter-in-law! Holy Maria! the thought was enough to cause his hair to stand on end. No, the old Don had other plans for his son. Maria Dolores, Felipe's cousin, was the woman he had picked out for his wife, and marry her he should if he wished to inherit his father's vast estates. In case he disregarded the latter's wish and married Pepita, the estates were to go to the Church, so it was stipulated in Don Juan's will. But neither the Church nor old Don Juan, as it afterwards proved, were a match for the clever Felipe. The handsome scapegrace had already secretly married Pepita.

The strangest of all things is perhaps the irony of fate. Before the year was up during which Felipe was charged to remain in the City of Mexico, both his father, Don Juan, and the priest who had performed the marriage ceremony for Felipe and Pepita, died. During his absence from home, the observant and quick-witted Felipe had learned not only many new things, but had made the acquaintance of other women as well. At its best, the love of the passionate, hot-blooded Felipe and the gentle Pepita could have endured only for a time. The attractions and fascinations of the Capitol opened his eyes to many things which he had hitherto overlooked, especially, that there are many beautiful women in the world, and always one who is just a little more beautiful than the others if one took the trouble to look for her. And so it happened that he forgot not only his honor, but his obligations to Pepita, and destroying the record of their marriage which he managed to secure with the assistance of a confederate, he turned a deaf ear to her pleadings and went his way.

What had he, Don Felipe Ramirez, who lived and ruled like a prince on his vast estates, to fear from a pretty little half-caste Indian girl?

But Don Felipe was young and still had much to learn in the world. The avenging angel that inevitably awaits us all at some turn or other in the lane, stood nearer to him than he realized, and the vengeance which followed was swift and complete.

Pepita took poison and died, but she died not alone—she died in the arms of Chiquita who had but recently returned from the convent.

The latter frequently accompanied Padre Antonio on his charitable missions and thus it chanced that she made Pepita's acquaintance and learned her story. Time passed and all went well with Felipe until the day he chanced to meet Chiquita.

We may deaden our souls to the voice of conscience, disavow a belief in destiny and shut our eyes to those forces of the Invisible which, in spite of ourselves, we know to exist, but how is it, that no man ever succeeds in escaping his fate?

When Don Felipe Ramirez looked for the first time into the two dark lustrous worlds of Chiquita's eyes, he beheld the height and depth of his existence. From that moment he fell at her feet and worshiped her with a passion that consumed and mastered him. Waking and dreaming she was ever in his thoughts—he could not live without her. But not until he was mad, ravished with desire, did she consent to become his wife. A smile, or a gentle pressure of the hand were the only caresses she deigned to bestow upon him; not until they were married would he be permitted to embrace and kiss her, give rein to his passion. A strange attitude for one of her nature to assume, and, as he looked back upon it, he wondered how he had endured it—that he had not suspected something.

At length the day set for the wedding arrived, and Chiquita with Senora Fernandez drove in state to the old Mission church where Padre Antonio awaited them to perform the marriage ceremony.

Don Felipe, in a state of exultation that lifted his soul to the clouds, stood waiting for her on the steps of the church as had been agreed between them; but as the two advanced, Chiquita suddenly paused before the door, and turning, tore the bridal-veil and wreath of orange blossoms from her brow and flung them into his face, crying: "Pepita Delaguerra is avenged!" Then turning, she deliberately descended the church steps and reentering her carriage, drove home, leaving Don Felipe dazed and speechless before the crowd of spectators that had gathered to witness the passing of the bride and groom.

Later she confessed the reason for her motives to Padre Antonio, but one circumstance she withheld even from him, the nature of which Don Felipe did not suspect, but which he would have given worlds to know.

Chiquita's conduct became the scandal of the country for miles around, and as is invariably the case, the majority of the women sided with Felipe. In more refined circles of society, her act would have been considered highly reprehensible and Felipe overwhelmed with sympathy. His base ingratitude would have been lightly censured in the familiar, sugared terms of the most approved fashion. He would have been forgiven, and petted, and even lauded as a martyr—and then, the world would have forgotten. With the Indian woman, however, it was different.

On the altars of her people was still written, "blood for blood," the same as in the ancient days.

Crushed, humiliated, his pride humbled to the dust, Don Felipe left the country and for four years sought to forget his shame and the taunts of his enemies in the distractions of the world. He traveled everywhere, was presented at the different Courts of Europe, and it was in Washington where his uncle was the Mexican Minister to the United States, that he met Blanch and Mrs. Forest and her niece. In vain did he try to forget. In vain did he search for another woman to supplant his love for Chiquita. He plunged into the wildest dissipation, but to no effect. The beautiful face of the dark woman followed him everywhere, stood between him and the world, lured him, fascinated him still as nothing else could, tortured him day and night and he knew no rest.

A thousand times he resolved to return and kill her, and a thousand times he relented, for he loved her as madly as ever and could not carry out his resolve. A prey to alternate fits of remorse and hatred, and tortured constantly by the knowledge of an unrequited love, the soul of Don Felipe Ramirez suffered the torments of the damned. His unconquerable love for Chiquita devoured him, gnawed constantly at his heart, and he cursed her—cursed her as only one of his temperament who had suffered as he suffered, could curse.

What could he do? Anguish succeeded anguish until he was at length drawn back again as irresistibly as the magnet is drawn to the north, to the woman he both loved and hated. He would throw himself at her feet. He, the proud, arrogant Don Felipe of former years, and bowed in the dust, implore forgiveness. Nothing was too hard. Any sacrifice she might demand of him, he would make. Surely, when she saw his remorse, his contrite humbled spirit, understood his suffering and realized that he could not forget her, could not live without her, that he loved her still through all the years of suffering, that his life was irrevocably linked to hers, she would relent, forgive him—become his wife.

His wife! The thought electrified, elated his being to an extent that it was lifted for the moment from out the black depths of his despondency. If not, well then, there would be time for the fulfillment of that which must inevitably follow—either his death or hers.



XI

"Holy Mother! but I am glad to see you again, Don Felipe Ramirez! What blessed chance has brought you back to us again?" Don Felipe started like one in a dream, and turning in the direction whence came the sound of the voice, he beheld Senora Fernandez standing on the veranda regarding him intently.

"Dona Fernandez!" he exclaimed with genuine pleasure, advancing to meet her, and extending his hand which she eagerly seized and held between both her own.

"Muchacho—muchacho!" she cried, clapping her hands as she released her hold on Don Felipe's. "Carlos, the Caballero's horse!" she continued, addressing the vaquero that appeared in the doorway of the Inn at her summons and who advancing, took possession of Don Felipe's horse and led him away to the stables.

"Let me look at you, Don Felipe," she continued, regarding him closely. "Why, you have not changed a hair! It might have been but yesterday that you left us."

"And you, Dona Fernandez are still the charming, handsome mistress of the Posada de las Estrellas to whom all men are irresistibly drawn."

"Flatterer!" retorted Senora, laughing gayly and blushing like a girl of sixteen. How sweet it was to hear such words from a handsome Caballero like Don Felipe! It reminded her of the old days when all men thought her beautiful and went out of their way to tell her so.

"It was unkind of you to remain away so long, Don Felipe. Your friends have missed you sadly and have prayed for the day of your return."

"Friends?" echoed Felipe with a sneer.

"Aye, friends. You will find that you have more friends now than when you left us."

"I can scarcely believe it. And yet," he added, "I wish it might be so."

"You shall learn shortly for yourself," returned Senora.

"How long," interrupted Felipe, eager to change the drift of the conversation, "have the American ladies been here?"

"Ah, you have seen them?"

"Yes, they were just going out for a walk when I arrived. It was a pleasant surprise to see them here. They are friends of mine."

"You know them?"

"Yes. I met them a year ago in Washington."

"Dios! to think of it!" she exclaimed.

"But what are they doing here?" he asked.

"Ah! that is just what I would like to know myself," replied Senora. "Caramba! but they are grand ladies! They say," she went on, "that they are traveling for pleasure, but what pleasure can such delicate, refined ladies possibly find in the desert, I should like to know? Judging from their talk and actions they can not have seen very much of the world. Dios! you should have witnessed the scene they created the day they arrived. And yet," she continued, "I like them and am glad they are here. They have brought new life into the place. God knows it is no longer what it used to be in the old days when Don Carlos, my husband, was alive," she added with a sigh.

Don Felipe smiled at the Senora's provincialism. What a great world lay outside that of her own, of which she was entirely ignorant.

A trip to the City of Mexico during her honeymoon was the only journey she had ever taken beyond the confines of Chihuahua.

"And then there is Mrs. Forest's brother, Col-on-el Van Ash-ton," she continued, pronouncing the latter's name slowly and with difficulty.

"Holy Maria! but he has caused us trouble! Nothing seems to suit him."

"Colonel Van Ashton?" repeated Felipe. "Ah, yes, I remember him."

"But that is not all," interrupted Senora. "There is also Captain Forest, Mrs. Forest's son. He came here before the others and seemed very much surprised and put out by their unexpected appearance."

"Captain Forest?" repeated Don Felipe slowly, as if trying to recall a chance meeting. "I have never met him. What is he like?"

"Ah, he's a grand Senor," answered Senora with enthusiasm. "A Caballero every inch, and rides a horse that's the devil himself. Why, only yesterday the brute kicked out the side of the corral, and after chasing the men off the place who had been teasing him, calmly walked into the garden and rolled in my choicest flower-bed."

"He must be a thoroughbred at any rate," laughed Felipe.

"Thoroughbred? He's the devil, I say! Captain Forest and his man, Jose, are the only ones that dare go near him." Don Felipe drew a gold cigarette-case thickly studded with diamonds and rubies from the inner pocket of his jacket, and lighted a cigarette.

"As I was saying," Senora went on, "Captain Forest is a fine gentleman. He's a great friend of Senor Yankton, and—" she stopped abruptly.

"And what?" asked Felipe suspiciously, closely scanning her face as he tossed away the burnt end of the match.

"Oh, nothing," answered Senora evasively. "Only much has transpired during your absence, Don Felipe." She hesitated as though uncertain how to proceed, then said: "I might speak of certain things, but perhaps I had better not. They would not interest you, anyway."

"Ah!" he said at length, endeavoring to conceal the emotion her words aroused. "I—I think I understand. You—you refer to her, I suppose?" There was a slight tremor in his voice and his hand trembled as he raised his cigarette to his lips for a fresh puff.

"Yes," she answered quietly. "I—I was about to say that she appears to be interested in this Captain Forest. But of course, that's nothing to you," she added hastily, watching him narrowly the while. Her words acted like fire to tinder.

"Interested in him?" he cried, starting violently and letting his cigarette fall to the ground. His face grew ashen pale and his right hand involuntarily went to the knife in his sash. "No, no, it cannot be!" he muttered excitedly. "Are you sure of what you say, Dona Fernandez? Tell me that it is not true—that it is a lie!" he almost hissed, his eyes glowing with the fires of passion and jealousy.

"Why, what has come over you, Don Felipe Ramirez?" cried Senora in alarm. "Surely you cannot—she can be nothing to you any more?"

"Nothing to me? Why do you suppose I am here?" he answered.

"Madre de Dios!" muttered Senora.

"Dona Fernandez," he began after a pause, his voice trembling in spite of himself, "God knows I have tried to forget her, but I—I cannot!" and his voice broke.

"What?" cried Senora excitedly. "You don't really mean to say that you still—love her?"

"I do," answered Felipe fiercely, driving his heel furiously into the ground. For some moments neither spoke. Then a flush of anger mounted to Senora's brow and she cried:

"Fie! Don Felipe! Have you forgotten your self-respect? The handsomest, richest man in all Chihuahua running after an Indian—the woman who treated you so shamefully—an ingrate who is unworthy of a love like yours? If I could have had my way, she would have been whipped publicly! What would Don Juan, your father, peace be to his soul, say if he were alive? Love her!" she cried in a frenzy of hatred and jealousy. "How can you possibly love her, Don Felipe Ramirez?"

"How can I love her?" retorted Felipe fiercely. "Why does the grass grow? Why do the birds sing? Why do the streams run to the ocean? Why do the flowers turn to the sun? Tell me that, Dona Fernandez," he cried in agony and bitterness, "and I will tell you why I love her in spite of myself, in spite of what she did, in spite of every effort I have made to resist her fascination! God!" and he struck his breast with his clenched hand, "I wonder I did not kill her then and there, but I could not, I could not; I loved her so!"

"Dios, but this is strange!" gasped Senora, raising both hands for an instant and then crossing herself devoutly as if to avert the power of some evil—the spell which seemed to cling to Don Felipe and bind him as with hoops of steel. She did not realize that Chiquita belonged to that rare type of beings who seem immortal; that it was impossible to imagine her other than young, that the years could work no change within her, and although Felipe had not yet seen her, his soul must flame up at the sight of her as of yore.

Felipe was silent, his eyes cast on the ground. His face wore a malignant expression of pain and hatred, and he trembled in every limb.

The revelation of his anguish startled her. She stepped close up to him and laying her hand gently on his shoulder, said in a voice full of compassion, almost of pity: "I understand, Don Felipe! You still see her as she was when you last knew her—it is but natural. Of course you could not know, but she has changed since then. In the opinion of every one, she has fallen, degraded herself."

"Degraded herself? What do you mean?" asked Felipe, turning his searching gaze upon her.

"Only a fortnight ago," answered Senora, "on the great day of the Fiesta, she danced publicly in Carlos Moreno's theater."

"Chiquita danced in Carlos Moreno's hall? Impossible!"

"Don Felipe," replied Senora with just the suggestion of a smile, "all things are possible with a woman."

"But why did she dance?" he asked.

"I don't know; neither does any one else. They say she received three thousand pesos in gold."

"Three thousand pesos?" echoed Felipe. "What did she do with them?"

"Ah! that's the mystery! What did she do with them?" answered Senora.

"It was not so much her dancing that scandalized the community, for we all know what a wonderful dancer she is. Nobody ever danced as she does, and we are willing to give her credit for it, but what did she do with the money? That's the scandal of it! I have noticed no change in her dress," she continued, "nor is it known that she has spent a single peso as yet."

"Strange," he murmured. "I cannot understand it."

"No more can I nor any one else," answered Senora. "But I have been forgetting my duty; I must prepare a room for you, Don Felipe. In the meantime," she added, ascending the veranda and pausing for an instant, "be assured of the hearty welcome of your friends when they learn of your return."

"Chiquita danced in public? I can't understand it!" he said aloud after Senora Fernandez had disappeared in the house. "And she interested in this Captain Forest?" His face grew livid and then black with hatred as a fresh wave of rage and jealousy swept over him.

"No, no; it cannot be!" he gasped, his left hand resting over his heart as though in pain. For some time he remained motionless as a statue, lost in thought with his eyes fixed on the ground. Suddenly he raised his head with a quick jerk. His face no longer wore an expression of pain and anguish, but one of settled, calm determination.

"I have come just in time," he said quietly. He smiled, and drawing forth his cigarette-case once more, he opened it and lit a fresh cigarette.



XII

Dona Fernandez could not sleep. All night long she tossed on her bed, repeating her conversation with Don Felipe and revolving what course to pursue. She instinctively felt that a great tragedy of some kind was imminent. Unless some plan of concerted action were immediately adopted, nothing could prevent it.

She knew her people too well. A reckless, hot-blooded man like Don Felipe in his present mood could not be trusted for long, but must sooner or later provoke a quarrel with Captain Forest, who she knew, would be equally dangerous if aroused. Since her conversation with Felipe she had noted the attitude of Blanch toward the Captain and her woman's instinct had half guessed the truth. But beautiful and irresistible though Blanch appeared, there was Chiquita, more beautiful and attractive than when Felipe had last seen her, and also quite as dangerous.

She knew that Felipe's passion was hopeless—that Chiquita would not hesitate to show her dislike and contempt for him anew—that should Captain Forest be attracted to her also, she would act like a fire-brand between the two men. If only one of them might be persuaded to leave the place, the clash which must inevitably occur, might be averted for a time at least, but this was clearly impossible. There was only one thing to be done for the present—advise Chiquita of Felipe's return and warn her of the danger that threatened them all if she provoked him unnecessarily.

Hopeless though this plan seemed, Chiquita might for the Captain's sake, if she really cared for him, act more discreetly than was her wont. But what could be expected from a woman in love? Who could tell how she would act? Besides, she argued, all men are fools. They seem to be born only to become the playthings of women, the majority of whom are invariably deceived by them in the end.

How she hated her! To think of Don Felipe running after her, eating out his heart, throwing away his young life for one like her! A love like his going begging! Merciful God! was there no justice in this world? And for the moment, she was quite carried away by a paroxysm of fury.

Ah, if only she, Dona Fernandez, were but ten years younger! But the chosen birds of Venus, the white doves of matrimony, were not destined to hover over her head a second time. Tears of longing and vexation dimmed her eyes as she thought of the golden, halcyon days of youth that would never return. At any rate, Felipe and Chiquita must not meet until after she had warned the latter. Blanch must be used as a foil as long as possible.

And so it happened that, when breakfast was over, Senora adroitly arranged that Felipe should conduct the two girls for a morning's ramble to the pretty little canon of the river which lay but a mile distant from the town where the foothills began; a plan that suited Blanch perfectly. She, too, had been doing some thinking over night and had recognized the possibility of using Don Felipe as a foil against Jack; he was certainly handsome and clever enough to serve the purpose admirably.

Captain Forest had gone for a ride an hour before for the purpose of giving his horse a short run to the foothills and back. So, when Senora had seen the others safely off, she slipped quietly away in the direction of Padre Antonio's house.

It lacked a quarter of eleven when she left the house. She knew that Chiquita would have long since returned from the market and would be at home. So occupied was she with her thoughts as she hurried forward intent upon her mission, she did not look up until she turned into the road leading directly past Padre Antonio's gate, when she suddenly stopped short. Before her she beheld Captain Forest standing in front of the gate holding his horse, and Chiquita handing him a red rose. Another instant, and Chiquita vanished through the gate into the garden and Captain Forest, remounting his horse, came riding leisurely down the road at a walk, inhaling the rose with evident pleasure. She drew back into the shadow of the old wall and pressed close into the thick bushy mass of white clematis vine which hung over it from above and waited until he passed.

It is the unexpected that always happens. The meeting between Chiquita and the Captain was purely accidental. While returning from his ride, he had been attracted by the beauty and luxuriance of Padre Antonio's garden as he rode by. He wheeled his horse about and drew rein before the open iron grating of the gate in order to obtain a better view of it. Its flowers consisted chiefly of roses of different varieties and colors. The air was spicy with their perfume and, as he inhaled their fragrance in deep breaths, his attention was presently attracted by the figure of Chiquita who appeared in the pathway before him, pausing beside a luxuriant bush of blood-red blossoms and apparently quite unconscious of his presence. The picture which she presented was one he carried with him for many a day afterward.



A small white dove strutted and cooed on the ground before her, while another flew down from the house-top and after circling above her head, also settled down beside its mate in the pathway.

She was dressed in a short pale green skirt and bodice, the latter cut low at the neck before and behind. The sleeves were short, reaching to the elbow and terminating in a narrow frill of deep saffron, their sides open and interlaced with silvery cords. Two richly embroidered silken shawls of a pale red color with long fringe and worn in Spanish style, adorned her dress. The one, pinned at the waist at the back and following the outline of the bodice, passed up over her left shoulder and down in front to her breast where it was fastened with a golden brooch, the end falling in a graceful length of fringe. The other, also fastened at the back of her waist, passed around her right hip and diagonally down across the front of her skirt. Golden poppies adorned the heavy masses of her lustrous black hair, worn high and held in place by a silver comb. A saffron lace mantilla of the same deep shade as that of the frill on her sleeves, fell in graceful folds from the comb to her shoulders, while her feet were clothed in silk stockings of the same shade and soft brown beaded slippers of undressed leather.

To complete this costume which only a Gypsy or one of Chiquita's tawny complexion would have dared essay to wear, a small pale red silken fan ornamented with gold and silver spangles, hung suspended from her wrist by a satin ribbon of deep orange which flashed in the sunlight like a splash of gold on a humming-bird's throat.

It was not by some happy chance that the Captain found her arrayed in such finery, as is so often the case with heroines of romance, but the result of much premeditation and studied effect. Ever since her meeting with Blanch she had dressed herself daily with terrible deliberation and nicety of precision, the same as every woman of flesh and blood would have done under the circumstances, on the chance of Captain Forest finding her at home when he came to pay his respects to the Padre as he had intimated he would do.

The thought of the innumerable dresses possessed by her rival, and the scantiness of her own wardrobe, composed though it was of the richest laces, silks and satins in the style of a past era, was something appalling; enough to turn a stouter heart than hers. And had she been anything else than an Indian, she would have sat down on the floor of her room in the midst of her finery and wept copious and bitter tears like the daughters of Babylon of old. The thought of the old dress which she had worn on the day of their meeting was not alone mortifying—it was excruciating. One of those things which we hasten to forget.

Dios! how she must have looked to him in the regal presence of Blanch, gowned in her stylish traveling costume!

Don Felipe Ramirez would have kissed the dust from off the hem of such an old garment, but would Captain Forest do the same? She could not afford to take any more risks with a rival like Blanch in the field.

There is no knowing how long Captain Forest would have remained a silent spectator of the charming picture she presented, had not her attention been attracted by the sound of Starlight's hoofs as he began to paw the ground impatiently. She raised her head from the bush over which she was bending and turned her gaze in the direction of the gate.

"Oh!" she cried with a little start, silently regarding the Captain for some moments. Then a smile slowly wreathed her lips and she broke into a light laugh. Her right hand involuntarily sought her fan which slowly opened across the lower half of her face and she shot a glance at him over its rim with an ease and grace which only Spanish women have ever succeeded in mastering. The effect of this deft bit of coquetry, simple and natural as were all her actions, was not lost upon the Captain.

"I don't know whether I love you or not," it said plainly as words, "but henceforth you shall be my slave."

"How long have you been there?" she asked at length, slowly lowering her fan.

"Only an instant, Senorita," he replied, raising his hat. "I was wondering," he continued, "whether it would be too much to ask you for one of those roses? One would not be missed among so many."

"Ah, but they are precious, Senor Capitan—these especially; they are my favorites," and she swept her hand caressingly over the bush beside which she was standing.

"For that reason I shall prize it all the more, Senorita."

"Ah! you men have a way of using flattery to women whenever you want anything of them. And yet," she continued with just the suggestion of a frown, "a woman would be hard hearted to refuse—" Her eyes dropped for an instant, then looking up again, she said hesitatingly: "I wonder if I can trust you?"

"Try me," he pleaded.

"I know it's foolish, but rather than have you think me less generous than the women you have known, I shall give you one little one, Captain Forest, that is, on condition you never ask me for another," and breaking off one of the largest half-blown blossoms, she held it in her hand as though loath to part with it.

"I promise," said the Captain solemnly, dismounting and holding his horse by the rein. "I dare not leave my horse, Senorita," he added in a tone of embarrassment, "he is unaccustomed to a town and feels strange, and should he take it into his head to bolt, he might do the first person he met an injury."

"Indeed? I have often thought of your horse and wondered where you got him. But," she continued reluctantly, "since you cannot come to me, I suppose I must come to you," and passing through the gate, she stood before him, rose in hand.

"A truly magnificent animal," she said, running her hand gently along Starlight's neck. "I've been accustomed to horses from childhood and can't help admiring a good one when I see it."

Much to the Captain's surprise, the Chestnut did not resent her touch, but whinnied softly instead and laid his nose on her shoulder. Any one else but Jose and himself he would have seized with his teeth. Perhaps it was her way of approaching and handling him, or was it the subtle influence of that mysterious kinship which exists between the wild things—strange and inexplicable to all but themselves?

"I thought I possessed the only pure Arab in Mexico," she continued. "He's a small black horse with a white star in his forehead, and has never been beaten. You should look at the Raven some time—he would interest you," she added.

"I should like to. Arabs are rare on this side of the Atlantic. Where did you get him?"

"He was a present from Count Don Louis de Ortega, of the City of Mexico."

"Count Louis de Ortega?"

"Yes. He is the most charming old gentleman I know. He is Padre Antonio's great friend."

"Ah!" ejaculated the Captain as though relieved.

"I once spent a summer traveling in Europe with the Ortega family. But here is your rose, Captain Forest. I almost believe you forgot it. Horses are so much more interesting than flowers," and handing him the rose, she was back again in the garden before he could thank her.

"A Dios, Capitan Forest," she continued with the softest accent imaginable, lingering unconsciously on his name as she paused on the other side of the gate. Again the little fan opened, and looking back over it with a bewitching smile and arched eyebrows and her head held coquettishly on one side, she said as if to herself: "I wonder how long he will keep it?"

His heart gave a great throb as he gazed upon that subtle, bewitching vision before him, "Forever, Senorita!" he was about to reply, but she was gone.

It might be argued that a woman of Chiquita's metal would not have shown her hand thus lightly. Let his infernal beast bolt and trample the whole town in the dust and himself in the bargain. If he wanted the rose, let him come and get it; not a step would she move! Possibly, but let it not be forgotten that she was in love—desperately in love; that the time for quibbling had passed, that another woman equally fair would have unhesitatingly waded through a river to deliver that rose to the Captain had he asked for it. Destiny had placed Captain Forest in the saddle, just as it had decreed that Don Felipe Ramirez should pass the remainder of his days pursuing an illusive vision. If nature and convention now swarmed at the Captain's saddle-bow, surely it was no fault of his. Had he not burnt his last bridge, snapped his fingers in the face of the world, and turned his back upon it and ridden forth in search of the lost kingdom of Earth?