Fortunately the moon had again appeared; but being yet low down in the sky, her beams were not thrown into the bottom of the valley—and therefore the trappers themselves were still under the shadow. This circumstance was in their favour.

Notwithstanding the perilous position in which they had thus voluntarily placed themselves, neither made the slightest movement; and the long barrels of their rifles stood forth in front of them, as motionless as bronze cannon set in battery.

They well knew, in case either should miss with their firearms, that a hand-to-hand struggle with the ferocious tigers would be the result; a combat of knives and claws—a combat to the death. Yes; at the bottom of that little valley it would be necessary for them to conquer or die. They knew this without exhibiting the slightest show of fear.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

UNEXPECTED RECOGNITIONS.

It was not long before the spectators, who awaited this terrible conflict, perceived the jaguars advancing toward the crest of the ridge. All at once, however, the two made an abrupt pause, uttering a loud roar that seemed to express disappointment. They had just scented the presence of the two men within the cistern—from which the animals were now only a few paces distant.

For a moment both male and female stood together, stretching their bodies out to their full length, and lashing their flanks with their long sinewy tails. Then, uttering another prolonged roar, they bounded simultaneously forward, passing, at a single leap, over a space of full twenty feet. A second spring brought them upon the crest of the ridge, upon which they had scarce rested an instant, before the quick sharp crack of a rifle, followed by a yell of agony, told that one of them had fallen to the hunter's bullet.

The second jaguar appeared for the moment to have escaped, but not to have retreated. He was seen to launch himself into the bottom of the little valley; and then was heard a confusion of noises—human voices mingling with the howls of the fierce brute, and the sound of a struggle, as if jaguar and hunters were rolling over one another. A second report now struck upon the ear, followed as before by the expiring yell of the tiger, and then succeeded a profound silence, which told that the wild scene was at an end.

The great trapper was now perceived scrambling up to the ridge—towards which the whole of the travellers had advanced to meet him.

"See!" he said, addressing himself to his admiring auditory, "see what a brace of Kentucky rifles and a good knife can do in the hands of those who know how to manage them!"

The darkness, however, hindered the spectators from making out the tableau which was exhibited at the bottom of the little valley.

A few minutes afterwards the moon lighted up the scene, and then could be observed the dead bodies of the two tigers, stretched along the ground by the water's edge, while the other trapper upon his knees was engaged in bathing with cold water a long scar, which he had received from the claws of the last killed jaguar, and which extended from behind his ear nearly down to his waist. Fortunately this ugly-looking wound was no more than skin-deep, and therefore not very dangerous.

"What signify the sharpest claws compared with the scratch of a knife!" cried he, pointing to the nearest of the jaguars, whose upturned belly exhibited a huge cut of more than a foot in length, and through which the entrails of the animal protruded.

"Can any of you tell us," continued he, without thinking further about his wound, "if there is a hacienda in this neighbourhood where one might sell these two beautiful jaguar skins, as well as the hide of a panther we've got?"

"Certainly," replied Benito, "there is the Hacienda del Venado, where we are going. There you may get not only five dollars apiece for the skins, but also the bounty of ten dollars more."

"What say you, Canadian?" inquired the trapper, addressing his great comrade. "Will that do?"

"Certainly," replied the Canadian, "forty-five dollars is not to be sneezed at; and when we have had a short nap we shall make tracks for the hacienda. We shall be likely to get there before these gentlemen, whose horses have taken a fancy to have a bit of a gallop, and I guess it will be some time before they lay hands on them again."

"Don't be uneasy about us!" rejoined the ex-herdsman. "It's not the first time I've seen a horse drove stampedoed, nor the first time I've collected them again. I've not quite forgotten my old business, and as soon as it is daylight, with the permission of the Senor Don Estevan, I shall go in search of them."

No one made any opposition to the rekindling of the fire, for the night had grown cooler, and it was not yet midnight. The domestics, no longer afraid of going out into the woods, collected fresh fagots—enough to last till morning—and the preparations for supper, which had been interrupted by the approach of the jaguars, were now continued with renewed zeal.

The blaze soon flared up bright and joyous as ever—the broiling mutton sent forth its delicious odour, sharpening to a keen edge the appetites of the travellers as they stood around the fire.

Don Estevan and the Senator now called before them the two intrepid hunters, who had rendered them a service that fully deserved their thanks.

"Come hither, brave hunters!" said the Senator, "you, whose daring behaviour has been of such service to us. A slice of roast mutton and a cup of Catalonian wine will not be out of place, after the rude struggle you have sustained."

"Ugh!" said the eldest of the trappers, in presenting his athletic form in front of the fire, "throwing a couple of poor tigers is no great feat. If it had been an affair of a dozen Comanches, or Pawnees, that would have been different. Howsomever, a chunk of roast mutton is welcome after a fight, as well as before one, and we're ready for it with your permission. Come along, comrade! Here's some chawing for you!"

"And you, young man," continued Don Estevan, addressing himself to Tiburcio, who stood at some distance apart, "you will also partake of our hospitality?"

Tiburcio by a sign accepted the invitation, and approached the fire. For the first time his countenance came fairly under the light; and as it did so, the eyes of the Spaniard seemed to devour him with their regard. In truth the physiognomy of Tiburcio Arellanos was of no ordinary character, and would have merited observation from one less interested in examining it than was Don Estevan Arechiza.

An aquiline nose, black eyes with thick dark eyebrows and long lashes, and olive complexion—that appeared almost white in contrast with the jetty blackness of his beard—but above all, the extreme contraction of a thin upper lip, indicated the countenance of a man of quick resolves and fiery passions. A shade of tranquil melancholy over these features to some extent tempered their half-fierce expression.

The hair was of a chestnut brown colour, and hung in luxuriant curls over a forehead large and of noble outline. Broad shoulders and well-developed limbs denoted a man of European vigour, whose personal strength would be equal, if occasion required it, to the execution of those passionate designs nourished under the tropical skies of Spanish America.

Tiburcio Arellanos was in truth the type of a noble and ancient race, transplanted into a country still less than half civilised.

"The very form and bearing of Don Juan de Mediana!" muttered Don Estevan to himself, more than half convinced that the young man before his eyes was the son of him whose name he had pronounced. No one could have read his suspicions, hidden under the mask of perfect calmness.

There was one other man in that group who was struck by the aspect of Tiburcio. This was the big trapper, who on first sight of the young man's face under the light of the fire started and closed his eyes, as if lightning had flashed before them. He was about to rush forward, when a second look seemed to convince him he had made a mistake; and smiling at his having done so, he kept his place. His eyes then wandered around the group of faces that encircled the fire, with that scrutinising glance, that showed a capacity for reading the characters of men in their looks.

Having finished this scrutiny, he called out to his companion, who had not yet got forward:—

"Come along, partner; or people will say you are ashamed to show yourself. Prove to these gentlemen that you know how to enjoy life like other folk."

"O certainly—I am coming—all right, comrade."

And the next moment the younger trapper made his appearance within the circle of light.

An odd-looking object he appeared, with his huge fur cap upon his head, drawn down in front, so as to cover his eyes, and an old striped cotton handkerchief fastened over his face and throat, in such a manner as to conceal the scar made by the claws of the tiger. With the cap and kerchief, the greater portion of his countenance was masked, leaving visible only his mouth, with a double row of grand teeth, that promised to perform their part upon the roast mutton.

Having reached the fire, he sat down with his back to it—so that his half-masked face was still further concealed in shadow—and being supplied, as well as his comrade, with a large cut from the joint, he at once set about satisfying the appetite of hunger.

"Are there many men of your size and strength where you come from?" inquired the Senator, addressing himself to the largest of the two hunters.

"In Canada," answered the latter, "I should not be remarked among others; ask my comrade there!"

"He speaks true," grumbled the other.

"But you are not both from the same country?" said Tragaduros.

"No—my comrade is a native of—"

"Of New York State," hastily interposed the younger of the two trappers—a reply which astonished the Canadian, but which he refrained from contradicting.

"And what is your calling?" continued the Senator, interrogatively.

"Coureurs des bois, wood-rangers," answered the Canadian. "That is to say, we pass our time in ranging the woods, with no other object than to avoid being shut up in towns. Alas! it is a profession likely soon to come to an end; and when we two are gone, the race of wood-rangers will run out in America, since neither of us has any sons to carry on the business of their father."

There was a tone of melancholy in the last words of the trapper's speech that contrasted strangely with his rude manner: something that seemed to evince a certain degree of regret. Don Estevan, noticing this, now entered into the conversation.

"I fear it is a poor business you follow, my brave fellows! But if you feel inclined to leave it off for a while, and take a part in an expedition that we are about to set on foot, I can promise to fill your caps with gold dust. What say you?"

"No!" brusquely responded the younger of the trappers.

"Each to his own business," added the Canadian. "We are not gold-seekers. We love to range freely where we please, without leader, and without being controlled by any one—in a word, free as the sun or the prairie breeze."

These answers were given in a tone so firm and peremptory that the Spaniard saw it would be of no use combating a resolution which was evidently not to be shaken, and therefore he declined to make any further offers.

Supper was soon over, and each of the travellers set about making himself as comfortable as possible for the remainder of the night.

In a short time all, with the exception of Tiburcio, were asleep. But Tiburcio was yet a mere youth, an orphan, who had lately lost a mother for whom he had a profound affection; and above all, Tiburcio was in love—three reasons why he could not sleep. A deep sadness had possession of his spirits. He felt himself in an exceptional situation—his past was equally mysterious with his future.

"Oh, my mother! my mother!" murmured he, despairingly, to himself, "why did you not tell me who I am!"

And as he said this he appeared to listen—as if the breeze, sighing through the leaves, would give a response to his interrogation. Little thought he at the moment that one of those men, lying near him under the light of the moon, could have given the desired answer—could have told him the name which he ought to hear.

Nevertheless, on her death-bed, the widow of Marcos Arellanos had revealed to him a secret—perhaps almost as interesting as that of his birth and parentage.

The secret of the Golden Valley, which had been made known to Tiburcio, had opened his eyes to a world of pleasant dreams. A prospect which hitherto had appeared to him only as a chimerical vision was now viewed by him in the light of a reality. A gulf that before seemed impassable was now bridged over as if by the hand of some powerful fairy.

Gold can work such miracles. Had he not in prospect the possession of a rich placer? Would not that enable him to overcome all obstacles both of the past and the future? Might he not, by the puissance of gold, discover who were his real parents? and by the same means, might he not realise that sweeter dream that had now for two years held possession of his heart?

As he lay upon the ground, kept awake by these hopeful reflections, a vision was passing before his mind's eye. It was a scene in which were many figures. A gentleman of rich apparel—a young girl his daughter—a train of servants all affrighted and in confusion. They have lost their way in the middle of the forest, and are unable to extricate themselves from the labyrinth of llianas and thickets that surround them. A guide appears in the presence of a young hunter, who engages to conduct them to the place whither they wish to go. That guide is Tiburcio himself, who in his reverie—as in the real scene that occurred just two years before—scarce observes either the gentleman in rich apparel nor the attendants that surround him, but only remembers the beautiful dark eyes and raven hair of the young girl. Tiburcio reassures them of safety, guides them, during a journey of two days—two days that appeared to him to pass only too rapidly.

In his waking dream one scene is forcibly recalled. He remembers a night halt in the woods. All were asleep around him—the attendants upon the grass—the rich gentleman upon his cloak, and the young girl upon the skin of a jaguar which the guide himself had supplied. He alone remained awake. The moon was shining upon all; and a delicious perfume from the blossoms of the sweet sassafras trees that grew near was wafted toward them upon the gentle breeze. The blue heaven above appeared in perfect harmony with the tranquil scene below. The guide, with admiring eyes, looked upon that lovely virgin form and listened to the soft breathing of that innocent bosom. To him it was a moment of delicious anguish...

Then the vision changed—the young girl at length reached her home, and entered the grand dwelling of her father. There the guide remained a whole week a welcome guest—drunk with love yet not daring to raise his eyes to the object of his passion.

Afterwards, too, at the festivals of the neighbouring villages, a hundred times had he gazed upon her; but what of that? he was only a poor gambusino, and she the daughter of the richest proprietor in the province!

But now—with the secret of the Golden Valley—Tiburcio suddenly saw himself powerful and rich; hope had sprung up within his bosom; and amidst the reverie occasioned by these delightful thoughts, he at last fell asleep.

It is scarce necessary to add that the young girl who recalled these sweet souvenirs, and who was now mingling in his dreams, was the daughter of Don Augustin Pena, the proprietor of the Hacienda del Venado.

At daybreak the sleepers were awakened by the ringing of a bell and the clatter of hoofs. It was the cavallada returning to camp, under the charge of Benito, who had thus kept his promise. The travellers were soon upon their feet, but it was soon perceived that the two trappers were not amongst them. These had gone away without any one having observed their departure!

The horses being saddled and bridled and the mules packed, the cavalcade continued its journey towards the hacienda—Don Estevan and the Senator, as before, riding in front.

It was after sunset before the walls of the hacienda were descried in the distance, already assuming a sombre hue under the fast increasing obscurity of the twilight. But through the wide forest tract which surrounded the hacienda a well-defined road led in the direction of the dwelling, which the travellers could follow even in the darkest night, and upon this road the cavalcade was now seen to enter.

A few minutes before they had passed into the forest from the open plain two men were seen standing near the edge of a thicket, by which they were hidden from the view of the travellers. These men might have been easily recognised by their long rifles as strangers to that part of the country; they were, in fact, the two trappers, the Canadian and his comrade, who had that morning so abruptly taken leave of the camp.

"You must have been deceived by some accidental resemblance," said the Canadian to his companion.

"No," replied the latter; "I am sure it is he. Twenty years have not made much change either in his face or figure. His voice is just the same as it was when I was the coast-guard, Pepe the Sleeper. My eyes and ears are as good as they were then, and I assure you, Bois-Rose, that he's the very man."

"Strange enough," answered Bois-Rose (for the great Canadian trapper was no other than Bois-Rose himself). "After all, one is more likely to meet an enemy he is in search of than a friend. It may be the same."

As he finished this speech, the Canadian, leaning upon his long rifle, stood looking after the cavalcade, which was just disappearing into the forest road that led to the hacienda.

After remaining a few minutes in this position, the two trappers turned back again into the forest, and soon disappeared under the shadows of the trees.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE HACIENDA DEL VENADO.

The Hacienda del Venado—like all buildings of this kind situated upon the Indian frontier, and of course exposed to the attacks of the savages—was a species of citadel, as well as a country dwelling-house. Built with sun-dried bricks and hewn stone, crowned by a crenelled parapet, and defended by huge, massive doors, it could have sustained a siege from an enemy more expert in strategy than the tribe of Apaches who were its neighbours.

At one corner stood a tower of moderate height, which crowned the chapel belonging to the hacienda, serving for the great clock as well as for a belfry. In case the principal part of the building should be forced, this tower would answer for an asylum almost impregnable.

Finally, a strong stockade composed of trunks of the palmetto, completely encircled the building; within which enclosure were the quarters destined for the domestics of the hacienda—as also for the herdsmen, and such ordinary guests as from time to time came to seek a passing hospitality. Outside this privileged enclosure was a group of from twenty to thirty huts, composing a species of little village. These were inhabited by the day-labourers (peons) and their families attached to the hacienda—who, in case of danger, would escape within the enclosure for safety and protection.

Such was the Hacienda del Venado. The proprietor, Don Augustin Pena, was a man of great opulence. In addition to a rich gold mine which he worked, at no great distance off, he was the owner of countless herds of horses, mules, and cattle, that in a half-wild state roamed over the vast savannahs and forests that constituted the twenty leagues of land belonging to the hacienda. Such a vast tract of territory belonging to one man is by no means a rare thing in northern Mexico.

At this time Don Augustin was a widower, and his family consisted of only one daughter—the young girl already introduced to the reader. Considering the immense heritage that the Dona Rosario—or, as she was more gracefully called, Rosarita—was likely to bring to whoever should become her husband, it was natural that an alliance with Don Augustin should be the object of many an ambition; in fact her beauty without the grand fortune—which, at her father's death, she was to become mistress of—would of itself have been enough to have challenged a crowd of pretenders to her hand.

The Andalusian type has lost nothing in the northern provinces of Mexico. Its purity of outline is there associated with freshness of colour, and this happy mixture of graces was exhibited in the beautiful countenance of Rosarita. We have described her with black eyes and hair of raven hue; but hers was a beauty that words can but faintly portray, and about which all description would be superfluous.

And this lovely creature bloomed in the very midst of the desert, like the flower of the cactus which blossoms and fades under the eye of God alone.

The immense plain in the midst of which stood the Hacienda del Venado presented a double aspect. In front of the house only did the ground show any traces of cultivation. On that side fields of Indian corn and vast olive plantations denoted the presence and skilful labour of man.

Behind the hacienda—at some hundred paces distance from the stockade— the clearing ended, and thence extended the virgin forest in all its sombre and primitive majesty.

The cultivated ground was intersected by a considerable stream of water. During the dry season it ran gently and silently along, but in the season of rain it would suddenly change into an impetuous torrent that inundated the whole plain, bearing huge rocks along in its current, and every year widening its channel.

Perhaps the most powerful of Arab chiefs, the richest patriarch of ancient times, never counted such superb and numerous herds as roamed over the pasturage of the Hacienda del Venado.

About an hour before sunset—on that same day on which the travellers departed from La Poza—two men, one on horseback, the other mounted on a mule, were seen traversing the plain in the direction of the hacienda. Both horse and mule were each a splendid specimen of his kind—the horse with fiery eye, broad chest, and curving, swan-like neck, was scarce more to be admired than the mule, that with fine, delicate limbs, rounded flanks, and shining coat, walked side by side with him.

This horseman was the master of the hacienda, Don Augustin Pena. His costume consisted of a hat of Guayaquil grass, a shirt of the finest cambric, an embroidered vest, and silk velvet pantaloons fastened down the sides with large buttons of gold.

His companion, the rider of the mule, was the chaplain of the hacienda, a reverend Franciscan monk in a sort of half convent costume. This consisted of an ample blue frock confined around the waist with a thick cord of silk, the tassels of which hung down below his knees. Beneath this appeared a pair of large riding-boots heavily spurred. Upon his head a grey beaver, somewhat jauntily set, gave to the Franciscan an appearance rather soldier-like than monastic.

The haciendado appeared to be regarding with a look of pride his rich possessions—extending beyond view on every side of him—as if he was reflecting how much this kind of wealth was superior to golden ingots shut idly in a chest; while the monk seemed to be absorbed in some profound reverie.

"By Saint Julian! the patron saint of travellers!" said Don Augustin, breaking silence, "you have been more than twenty-four hours absent! I was afraid, reverend father, that some jaguar had swallowed both you and your mule."

"Man proposes, and God disposes," replied the monk. "When I took my departure from the hacienda, I did not except to be gone more than a few hours—giving Christian burial to poor Joaquin, that had been killed by one of the bulls—but just as I had blessed the earth where they had buried him, a young man came galloping up like a thunderbolt, both himself and horse all of a sweat, to beg that I would go along with him and confess his mother who was upon her death-bed. Only ten leagues he said it was, and I should have been glad for a pretext to get off from such a difficult turn of duty; but at the earnest entreaty of the young fellow, and knowing who he was, I could not refuse him. Who do you think he was?"

"How should I know?" replied the haciendado.

"Tiburcio, the adopted son of the famous gambusino, Marcos Arellanos."

"How! his mother dead! I am sorry. He is a brave youth, and I have not forgotten the service he once did me. But for him we should all have been dead of thirst, my daughter, my people, and myself. If he is left without resources, I hope you have said to him that he will find a welcome at the Hacienda del Venado."

"No—I have not," replied the monk.

"And why?"

"Because this young fellow is desperately in love with your daughter; it is my duty to tell you so."

"What signifies that, so long as my daughter does not love him?" replied Don Augustin. "And if she did, where would she find a man possessing higher physical or moral qualities than this same Tiburcio? I never dreamt of having for my son-in-law any other than an intelligent man, brave enough to defend the frontier against these hordes of savage Indians, and just such a man is young Arellanos. But in truth I forget myself; I have this day designed for Rosarita a husband of a more exalted station."

"And it may be that you have done wrong," rejoined the monk, in a serious tone; "from what I suspect—in fact, what I may say I know—this Tiburcio might make a more valuable son-in-law than you imagine."

"It's too late then," said Don Augustin. "I have given my word, and I cannot retract it."

"It is just about this matter I wish to speak to you, if you have time to hear me."

At this moment the two horsemen, having passed the stockade, had arrived at the foot of the stone stairway—which led up to the portico, and thence into the grand sala of the hacienda—and while dismounting, their dialogue was interrupted.

This sala was a large room, which, according to the practice in hot countries, was so arranged as to be continually kept cool by a current of air passing lengthwise through its whole extent. Fine Chinese mats covered the floor, while richly painted window-blinds prevented the rays of the sun from entering the apartment. The walls, whitened with stucco, were adorned with rare illuminated paintings set in gold frames, some leathern chairs called butacas, several side tables—upon one of which stood a silver brazero filled with red cinders of charcoal—these, with a fauteuil or two, and a mahogany couch of Anglo-American manufacture, completed the furniture of the apartment.

Upon a table of polished balsam-wood stood several porous jars containing water; beside them, on a large silver waiter, were confections of several kinds; while heaped upon other dishes, also of solid silver, were fruits both of the tropic and temperate climes— oranges, granadillas, limes, and pitayas, here brought together to tempt the appetite or assuage the thirst.

The appearance of these preparations denoted that Don Augustin expected company. As soon as they had entered within the sala, the monk, observing the well garnished tables, inquired if such was the case.

"Yes," answered the haciendado, "Don Estevan de Arechiza has sent me word that he will arrive this evening with a somewhat numerous train, and I have taken measures to entertain a guest of such importance. But you say you wish to speak to me about some business—what is it, Friar Jose Maria?"

The two now sat down, each choosing an easy-chair, and while Don Augustin was lighting a cigar the monk commenced speaking as follows:

"I found the old woman seated upon a bank outside the door of her hut, whither she had dragged herself to look out for my arrival. 'Bless you, good father!' said she, 'you have arrived in time to receive my last confession. But while you rest a little, I wish you to listen to what I am going to say to him whom I have always treated as my own child, and to whom I intend to leave a legacy of vengeance.'"

"What! holy father!" interrupted Don Augustin, "surely you did not permit this infraction of God's law, who says, vengeance belongs only to Him?"

"Why not?" replied the monk. "In these deserts, where neither laws nor tribunals exist, every man must be his own avenger."

With this strange apology for his conduct, the monk continued:

"I sat down and listened to what she had to say to this adopted son. It was this:—'Your father was not killed by the Indians, as we were led to believe. It was his companion who murdered him—for the purpose of being the sole possessor of a secret, which I shall presently disclose— but to you only, Marcos.'

"'God alone knows who this man was,' said Tiburcio, 'he alone knows him.'

"'He only!' cried the dying woman, with an air of disdain. 'Is this the language of a man? When the Indians come to steal his cattle from the vaquero, does he sit still and say: God only can prevent them? No!— with his eye bent, and his hand ready, he follows upon their traces, till he has recovered his herds, or perished in the attempt. Go you and do as the vaquero! Track out the assassin of your father. That is the last wish of her who nourished you, and has never failed in her affection.'

"'I shall obey you, my mother,' answered the young man, in a firm voice.

"'Listen, then, to what I have got to say!' continued the widow. 'The murder of Arellanos is no longer a supposition, but a reality. I have it from a herdsman who came from the country beyond Tubac. Some days before, he had met two travellers. One was your father Marcos; the other was a stranger to him. The herdsman was travelling on the same route, and followed them at some distance behind. At a place where certain signs showed that the two travellers had made their bivouac, the herdsman had found the traces of a terrible struggle. The grass was bent down, and saturated with blood. There were tracks of blood leading to a precipice that hung over a stream of water; and most likely over this the victim was precipitated. This victim must have been Marcos; for the herdsman was able to follow the trail of the murderer by the tracks of his horse; and a little further on he noticed where the horse had stumbled on the left fore-leg. The assassin himself must have been wounded in the struggle, for the herdsman could tell by his tracks leading to the precipice that he had limped on one leg.'"

Don Augustin listened with attention to this account—proving the wonderful sagacity of his countrymen, of which he had almost every day some new proof. The monk went on with his narration.

"'Swear then, Tiburcio, to avenge your father!' continued the dying woman. 'Swear it, and I promise to make you as rich as the proudest in the land; rich enough to bend to your wishes the most powerful—even the daughter of Augustin Pena, for whom your passion has not escaped me. This day you may aspire to her hand without being deemed foolish; for I tell you, you are as rich as her own father. Swear, then, to pursue to the death the murderer of Arellanos?'

"'I swear it,' rejoined Tiburcio, with a solemn gesture.

"Upon this, the dying woman placed in the hands of the young man a piece of paper, upon which Arellanos, before leaving his home for the last time, had traced the route of his intended journey.

"'With the treasure which that paper will enable you to find,' continued the dying woman, 'you will have gold enough to corrupt the daughter of a viceroy, if you wish it. Meanwhile, my child, leave me for a while to confess to this holy man: a son should not always hear the confession of his mother.'"

The monk, in a few more words, related the closing scene of the widow's death, and then finished by saying:—

"Now, Don Augustin, you perceive my reason for saying that this young fellow, whatever may be his family, is not the less likely to make a good match for the Dona Rosarita."

"I agree with you," responded the haciendado; "but, as I have said to you, my word is given to Don Estevan de Arechiza."

"What!" exclaimed the monk, "this Spaniard to be your son-in-law!"

Don Augustin smiled mysteriously as he replied:—

"He! no, good Fray Jose, not he, but another. Don Estevan does not wish this alliance."

"Caspita!" exclaimed the monk. "Does he think it beneath him?"

"It may be he has the right to think so," added Don Augustin, again smiling mysteriously.

"But who is this man?" inquired the monk, with an air of surprise.

Just as Don Augustin was about to reply, a servant entered the sala.

"Senor Don Augustin," said the servant, "there are two travellers at the gate, who beg of you to give them a night's lodging. One of them says that he is known to you."

"Bid them welcome!" replied the haciendado, "and let them enter. Whether they are known to me or not, two guests more or less will be nothing here."

A few seconds after, the two travellers had advanced to the foot of the stone stairway, where they stood awaiting the presence of the master of the house.

One of them was a man of about thirty years of age—whose open countenance and high forehead denoted courage, combined with intelligence. His figure presented an appearance of strength and vigorous activity, and he was somewhat elegantly dressed—though without any signs of foppery.

"Ah! is it you, Pedro Diaz?" cried Don Augustin, recognising him. "Are there any Indians to be exterminated, since I find you coming into these solitudes of ours?"

Pedro Diaz was, in truth, known as the most celebrated hater and hunter of Indians in the whole province—hence the strange salutation with which Don Augustin received him.

"Before answering you, Senor Don Augustin, permit me to introduce to you the king of gambusinos and prince of musicians, the Senor Don Diego Oroche, who scents a placer of gold as a hound would a deer, and who plays upon the mandolin as only he can play."

The individual presented under the name of Oroche, solemnly saluted the haciendado.

It must have been a long time since the prince of gambusinos had found an opportunity to exercise the subtle talent of which his companion spoke—or else the cards had been of late unlucky—for his outward man presented an appearance that was scarcely more than comfortable.

In reaching his hand to his hat, it was not necessary for him to disarrange the folds of his cloak. It only required that he should choose one of the numerous rents that appeared in this garment, to pass through it his long-clawed fingers—whose length and thinness denoted him a player on the mandolin. In reality, he carried one of these instruments slung over his shoulders.

Don Augustin invited both Diaz and his singular companion to enter. When they were seated in the saloon Diaz began the conversation.

"We have heard," said he, "of an expedition being got up at Arispe to proceed to Apacheria; and this gentleman and I are on our way to take part in it. Your hacienda, Senor Don Augustin, chanced to lie in our way, and we have entered to ask your permission to lodge here for the night. By daybreak we shall continue our route for Arispe."

"You will not have to go so far," replied Don Augustin, with a smile. "The expedition is already on foot, and I expect the leader of it here this very night. He will be glad of your services, I guarantee you, and it will save you several days' journey."

"A miracle in our favour!" exclaimed Diaz; "and I thank God for the lucky coincidence."

"The thirst of gold has caught you also, Pedro Diaz?" asked Don Augustin, smiling significantly.

"No, thank God!" replied Diaz, "nothing of the sort. Heave the searching for gold to experienced gambusinos, such as the Senor Oroche here. No—you know well that I have no other passion than hatred for the ferocious savages who have done so much ill towards me and mine. It is only because I hope through this expedition once more to carry steel and fire into their midst, that I take any part in it."

"It is right," said the haciendado, who like all dwellers upon the frontiers exposed to Indian incursions, nourished in his heart a hatred for the savages almost equal to that of Diaz himself. "I approve of your sentiments, Don Pedro Diaz; and if you will permit me to offer you a gage of mine, I beg you will accept from me the present of a horse I have—one that will carry you to your satisfaction. I promise you that the Indian you pursue, while on his back, will require to go as fast as the wind itself, if you do not overtake him."

"He shall be my war-horse," exclaimed Diaz, his eyes sparkling with pleasure at the gift. "I shall ornament his crest with Indian scalps, in honour of him who gave him to me."

"I cannot divine what has delayed Don Estevan," said the haciendado, changing the subject of conversation. "He should have been here three hours before this, that is, if he passed the night at La Poza."

Don Augustin had scarce finished his speech when a sudden and graceful apparition glided into the saloon. It was his daughter, the beautiful Rosarita.

As if the expected cavalcade only awaited her presence, the clattering of hoofs at the same instant was heard outside; and by the light of the torches which the domestics had carried out, Don Estevan and his suite could be seen riding up to the entrance of the hacienda.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

ROSARITA.

On the route from La Poza it had fallen to the lot of Cuchillo and Tiburcio to ride side by side, but for all this few words had passed between them. Although Cuchillo had not the slightest idea of renouncing his dire design, he continued to hide his thoughts under an air of good-humour—which when need be he knew how to assume. He had made several attempts to read the thoughts of the young gambusino, but the latter was on his guard, seeking in his turn to identify Cuchillo with the assassin of his father. No opportunity offered, however; and in this game of mutual espionage, neither had the advantage. Nevertheless, an instinctive and mutual hatred became established between the two, and before the day's journey was over, each regarded the other as a mortal foe. Cuchillo was more than ever determined to execute his hellish purpose—since a crime less or more would be nothing to him—while Tiburcio, keenly remembering the oath which he had made to his adopted mother, was resolved on keeping it, and only awaited the time when he should be sure of the assassin. We need scarcely add that Tiburcio in the accomplishment of his vow, had no thought of playing the assassin. No. Whenever and wherever the murderer should be found, he was to die by Tiburcio's hand; but only in fair and open fight.

But there were other painful reflections that occupied Tiburcio's mind during the journey. The nearer he approached the object of his love the greater seemed to be the distance between them. Though a man may hope to obtain what he only wishes for in a moderate way, yet when anything is ardently yearned after, the obstacles appear insurmountable. Hence the secret of many a heroic resolution. When Tiburcio was reclining by the well of La Poza, his sweet dream hindered him from thinking of these obstacles; but now that the journey was nearly ended, and he drew near to the grand hacienda, his spirits fell, and a feeling of hopelessness took possession of his soul. Hence it was that he formed the resolution to put an end to the painful suspense which he had now a long time endured; and that very night, if possible, he intended to ascertain his position in the eyes of Dona Rosarita. Come what might, he resolved to ask that question, whose answer might render him at once the happiest or the most miserable of men.

When Tiburcio had first met Dona Rosarita, with her father and his servants, in the depth of the forest, he knew nothing of the rank of the party thus wandering astray. Even during the two happy days in which he acted as their guide, he was ignorant of the name of the beautiful young girl, to whom his eyes and his heart rendered a continual homage. He therefore permitted himself to indulge in those pleasant dreams which have their origin in a hopeful love. It was only after he had learned the quality of his fellow-travellers—that the young lady was the daughter of the opulent proprietor, Don Augustin Pena—it was only on ascertaining this that Tiburcio perceived the folly of his aspirations, and the distance that lay between him and the object of his love. If then the secret, so unexpectedly revealed to him, had given him a desire for the possession of riches, it was not for the sake of being rich. No; a nobler object inspired him—one more in keeping with his poetic character. He desired riches only that with them he might bridge over the chasm that separated him from Rosarita.

Unhappily he could not hide from himself the too evident fact that he was not the sole possessor of the secret.

All at once it occurred to him that the expedition to which he found himself thus accidentally attached could have no other object than this very placer of the Golden Valley. Most likely the very man who shared the secret with him—the murderer of Marcos Arellanos—was among the men enrolled under the orders of the chief Don Estevan. The ambiguous questioning of Cuchillo, his comprehension of events, the stumbling of his horse, with other slighter indications, appeared to throw some light upon the obscurity of Tiburcio's conjectures; but not enough. How was he (Tiburcio) to arrive at a complete understanding?

A still more painful uncertainty pressed upon his spirit, as they approached the dwelling of Don Augustin. What reception would he meet with from Dona Rosarita? he, a poor gambusino—without resources, without family—poorly dressed even—a mere follower, confounded with the common mob of adventurers who composed the expedition? Sad presentiments were passing in his mind, as the cavalcade of which he formed so humble an appendage arrived at the palisade enclosure of the hacienda.

The gates were soon open to receive them; and the moment after Don Augustin himself welcomed the travellers at the front entrance of the mansion. With that ease and elegance, almost peculiar to Spanish manners, he received Don Estevan and the Senator, while the cordiality with which he welcomed Tiburcio appeared to the young man a happy omen.

The travellers all dismounted. Cuchillo remained outside—partly out of respect to his chief and partly to look after his horse. As to Tiburcio, he had not the same motives for acting thus, and therefore entered along with Don Estevan and Tragaduros, his face pale and his heart beating audibly.

The room into which they had been shown was the grand sala already described, and in which certain preparations had been made for a magnificent banquet. But Tiburcio saw nothing of all this. His eyes beheld only one object—for there stood a beautiful girl whose lips rendered paler the carnation red of the granadillas, and the hue of whose cheeks eclipsed the rosy tint of the sandias, scattered profusely over the tables. It was Rosarita herself. A silken scarf covered her head, permitting the thick plaits of her dark hair to shine through its translucent texture, and just encircling the outline of her oval face. This scarf, hanging down below the waist, but half concealed her white rounded arms, and only partially hindered the view of a figure of the most elegantly voluptuous tournure. Around her waist another scarf of bright scarlet formed a sort of cincture or belt, leaving its long fringed ends to hang over the skirt of her silken robe, and blending its colours with those of the light veil that fell down from her shoulders. It was a costume that seemed well-suited to her striking beauty, and the effect of the coup d'oeil upon the heart of poor Tiburcio was at once pleasant and embarrassing.

Notwithstanding the gracious smile with which she acknowledged his presence, there was a certain hauteur about the proffered welcome—as if it was a mere expression of gratitude for the service he had formerly rendered.

Tiburcio observed this with a feeling of chagrin, and sighed as he contrasted her cold formality of speech with the abandon and freedom of their former relations. But he could not help noticing a still greater contrast when he looked at his own poor garments and compared them with the elegant costumes of his two travelling companions.

While Don Estevan was entertaining his host with some account of what had happened on their journey, the Senator appeared to have eyes only for the beautiful Rosarita—upon whom he was not slow in lavishing a string of empty compliments.

The young girl appeared to Tiburcio to receive these compliments with a smile very different from that she had accorded to himself; he also observed, with a feeling of bitterness, the superior easiness of manner in which those whom he regarded as his rivals addressed themselves to her. With anguish he noticed the colour become more vivid upon her cheeks; while the heaving of her bosom, as the scarf rose and fell in regular vibrations, did not escape the keen glance of jealousy. In fact the young girl appeared to receive pleasure from these gallantries, like a village belle who listens to the flatteries of some grand lord, at the same time that a voice from within whispers her that the sweet compliments she is receiving are also merited.

Don Estevan was not unobservant of this by-play that was passing around him. He easily read in the expressive looks of Tiburcio the secret of his heart, and involuntarily contrasted the manly beauty of the young man with the ordinary face and figure of the Senator. As if from this he apprehended some obstacles to his secret projects, more than once his dark eyebrows became contracted, and his eyes shone with a sombre fire.

By little and little he ceased to take part in the conversation, and at length appeared wrapped in a profound meditation. Insensibly also an air of melancholy stole over the features of Rosarita. As for Don Augustin and the Senator they appeared at once to be on good terms with each other, and carried on the conversation without permitting it to flag for a moment.

Just then Cuchillo, accompanied by Baraja, entered to pay their respects to the master of the hacienda. Their entrance within the sala of course created some slight disarrangement in the tableaux of the dramatis personal already there. This confusion gave Tiburcio an opportunity to carry out a desperate resolution he had formed, and profiting by it, he advanced nearer to Rosarita.

"I will give my life," said he to her, in a side whisper, "for one moment alone with you. I wish to speak of an affair of the highest importance."

The young girl regarded him for a moment with an air of astonishment, further expressed by a disdainful movement of the lip; although, considering their former relations, and also the free familiarity of Mexican manners, she might have been expected to have excused his freedom. Tiburcio stood waiting her reply in a supplicating attitude, and as everything seemed spontaneous with her, he had not long to wait. She answered in a few words:

"To-night then—at ten o'clock I shall be at my window."

Scarcely had the thrilling tones of her voice ceased to vibrate on the ear of Tiburcio, when supper was announced, and the guests were shown into another room. Here a table, splendidly set out, occupied the middle of the apartment, above which hung a great chandelier fitted with numerous waxen candles: these gave out a brilliant and cheerful light, that was reflected from hundreds of shining vessels of massive silver of antique forms, arranged upon the table below.

The upper end of the table was occupied by the host himself and his principal guests. His daughter sat on his left hand, while Don Estevan was placed upon the right. After them, the Senator and the chaplain, and Pedro Diaz. At the lower end were seated Tiburcio, Cuchillo, Baraja and Oroche.

The chaplain pronounced the benedicite. Although it was no longer the same jumbling formula, sans facon, which he had used at the death-bed of the widow of Arellanos, yet the air of mock solemnity and unction with which the grace was uttered, recalled to the heart of Tiburcio that sad souvenir, which recent events had for a time caused him to forget.

Cheerfulness soon reigned around the table. The expedition was talked of, and toasts drunk to its success. Vast silver goblets of antique shape were used for wine glasses, and these, passing rapidly from hand to mouth, soon produced an abundance of good-humour among the guests.

"Gentlemen!" said Don Augustin, when the festive scene was near its end, "before retiring I have the honour to invite you all to a hunt of the wild horse on my estate—which is to come off early in the morning."

Each of the guests accepted the invitation, with that abandon natural to people who have made a good supper.

With regard to Tiburcio, jealousy was devouring him. He scarce ate of the rich viands placed before him. He kept his eyes constantly fixed upon Don Estevan, who, during the supper appeared to pay marked attentions to Rosarita, and for every one of which Tiburcio thanked him with a look of hatred. As soon as the supper was ended, the young man silently left the room and repaired to the chamber that had been assigned to him for the night.

At an early hour—for such was the custom of the hacienda—all the guests had retired to their sleeping apartments—even the domestics were no longer to be seen in the great hall; and a profound silence reigned throughout the vast building, as if all the world had gone to rest. But all the world was not yet asleep.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE ASSIGNATION.

Alone in his chamber, Tiburcio awaited impatiently the hour named by Rosarita. From his window he cast a distracted glance over the plain that stretched away from the walls of the hacienda. The moon was up in the heavens, and the road leading to Tubac appeared under her light shining like a vast ribbon extended through the middle of the forest. The forest itself appeared asleep; not even a breath stirred the leaves of the trees, and the only sounds he heard were those caused by the half-wild herds that wandered through its glades. Now and then the bellowing of a bull denoted the uneasiness of the animal—perhaps from the presence of those terrible night robbers, the puma and jaguar. There was one other sound that reached the ear of Tiburcio, but this appeared to proceed from some part of the hacienda itself. It was the tinkling of a mandolin. The hour was appropriate to amorous reflections, as well as to thoughts of a graver character, and both presented themselves at that moment to the spirit of Tiburcio. Like all those whose life has been passed amid the depths of the desert, there was at the bottom of his heart a certain poetic temperament, at the same time that his soul exhibited that energetic vigour required by the dangers which surround such a life of solitude. His present position then was perfectly appropriate to this double character. His love was unreciprocated—the coolness of Rosarita, almost assured him of the painful fact—and some secret presentiment told him that he was encompassed by enemies.

While thus sadly reflecting on his situation, an object came under his eyes that attracted his attention. It was the gleam of a fire, which appeared to be kindled under cover of the forest at no great distance from the hacienda. The light was partly eclipsed by that of the moon, but still it could be traced by the greater redness of its rays, as they trembled mysteriously on the silver foliage of the trees. It denoted the halting-place of some traveller.

"So near the hacienda!" muttered Tiburcio, in entering upon a new series of reflections. "What can it mean? Why have these travellers not come here to demand hospitality? They have certainly some reason for keeping themselves at a distance? They may be unknown friends to me for heaven often sends such to those who stand in need of them. Cuchillo, Don Estevan, and this pompous Senator, all appear to be my enemies and all are secure under this roof! why might not these travellers, who appear to shun it for that very reason prove friends to me?"

The hour of rendezvous had at length arrived. Tiburcio took up his serape and his knife—the last, the only weapon he had—and prepared to go out from his chamber without making any noise. A fearful conflict of emotions was passing in his bosom; for he knew that in a few minutes would be decided the question of his happiness or misery. Before leaving his chamber, he looked once more through the window in the direction of the forest fire. It was still gleaming in the same place.

While the lover, with cautious tread and wildly beating heart, was silently traversing the long gallery, and passing round to that side upon which opened the window of Rosarita, other scenes were passing elsewhere that must now be detailed.

Since his arrival at the hacienda, Don Estevan, in presence of the other guests, had scarce found an opportunity to speak with the haciendado on business that concerned both of them. Only for one moment had they been alone; and then the Spaniard had briefly related to Don Augustin the contract he had entered into with Cuchillo. When Don Estevan mentioned the secret of the Golden Valley, the haciendado appeared to make a slight gesture, as of disappointment, but their short dialogue ended abruptly by a promise to return to the subject at a later hour of the night.

Don Estevan awaited until all the other guests had retired to their chambers. Then drawing the Senator into the bay of one of the large windows of the sala, he requested him to look up at the stars that were shining in all their brilliance in the blue sky above.

"See!" said he, pointing to a particular constellation. "That is the Chariot that has risen above the eastern horizon. Do you perceive a single star farther down, which scarce shines through the vapour? That is the emblem of your star, which at present pale, to-morrow may be in the ascendant, and gleam more brightly than any of those that compose the brilliant cortege of the Chariot."

"What mean you, Senor Arechiza?"

"I shall tell you presently. Perhaps the hour is nearer than you think when you may be the future master of this hacienda, by a marriage with the charming daughter of its present owner, who is to be its heiress. Come presently to my apartment. The conversation which I am about to have with Don Augustin must be decisive, and I shall let you know the result."

With these words the Spaniard and the Senator parted—the heart of the latter beating at the same time with hope and fear.

Don Estevan now awaited the haciendado, who the moment after came up to him.

The proprietor of the Hacienda del Venado, as has already been seen, had given to the Spaniard more than an ordinary welcome. His politeness to him when in presence of witnesses, was even less respectful than when the two were alone. On his side Don Estevan appeared to accept the homage of the other as if it were due to him. There was in his polite condescension towards the rich proprietor, and in the deference of the latter towards him, something resembling the relation that might be supposed to exist between a powerful sovereign and one of his noble vassals.

It was not until after reiterated requests—orders they might almost be called—that Don Augustin consented to be seated in the presence of the other—whereas the Spaniard had flung himself into a fauteuil on the moment of entering the chamber, and with the most perfect abandon.

The haciendado waited silently for Don Estevan to speak.

"Well, what do you think of your future son-in-law?" inquired the Spaniard. "I presume you never saw him before?"

"Never," answered Don Augustin. "But if he was even less favoured by nature than he is, that would make no obstacle to our projects."

"I know him; he only needs to be known to prove that he has in him the stuff of a gentleman, besides being a senator of the illustrious congress of Arispe."

The Spaniard pronounced these words with a slight smile of contempt.

"But, senor," continued he, "that is not the difficulty, the important matter is whether your daughter will find him to her liking."

"My daughter will act according to my wish," said the haciendado.

"But supposing her heart is not free?"

"The heart of Rosarita is free, Senor Don Estevan; how could it be otherwise—she whose life has been spent in the midst of these deserts?"

"And what about this ragged young fellow, this Tiburcio Arellanos, whom you appear to know? he is in love with your daughter?"

"I have been made aware of it this very morning."

"If it is only a few hours, then, since you have been apprised of the secret of his passion, surely that of your daughter cannot have to this time escaped you?"

"The truth is," answered Don Augustin, smiling, "that I understand better how to follow the traces of an Indian, and read in the countenance of a savage his most secret thoughts, than to look into the heart of a young girl. But I repeat it, I have reason to believe that my daughter's heart is free of any such affection. I do not apprehend any difficulty in this regard. I dread an obstacle of a more important character—I mean an obstacle to the expedition you are about to conduct into the desert."

Here the haciendado communicated to Don Estevan the particulars which the monk had gathered at the death-bed of the widow of Arellanos, and which seemed to produce a strong impression on the Spaniard; but although the conversation continued for some time longer, I shall not here detail what was said, but return to the Senator, who with anxious heart was now awaiting Don Estevan in the apartment which had been assigned to the latter.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

THE DUKE DE ARMADA.

The chamber set apart for the Senor Don Estevan de Arechiza was undoubtedly the best in the house; and, notwithstanding the little progress that luxury has made in the state of Sonora, was furnished with considerable elegance.

In this chamber Don Estevan found the Senator pacing to and fro, with an air that bespoke him a prey to the most vivid emotions.

"Well, Senor Don Vicente!" began Arechiza, who appeared to make light of the impatience of his protege, "what do you think of the daughter of our host? have I exaggerated her beauty?"

"Oh, my friend!" exclaimed the Senator, with all that vivacity of pantomimic gesture so characteristic of the South, "the reality far exceeds the imagination. She is an angel! Even in our country, famous for its beautiful women, Dona Rosarita is certainly loveliest of all."

"And richest too," added the Spaniard, with a smile.

"Who would have expected to find, in the middle of the desert, such an accomplished beauty? such youthful freshness? Such charms were created to shine in afar higher sphere?"

"At the court of a king, for instance," carelessly rejoined Arechiza.

"Oh! Senor Don Estevan!" again exclaimed the Senator in an earnest voice, "do not keep me in suspense; the divine, the rich Dona Rosarita— is it possible I am to have her for my wife?"

"One word from me, one promise from you, and the thing is done. I have her father's word. Within fifteen days you may be the husband of his daughter."

"Agreeable as easy."

"A little later you will be rich."

"No harm in that."

"Later still you will be a grand proprietor."

"Oh! it is magnificent. Carramba! Senor de Arechiza, it is a perfect cataract of felicities to be lavished upon my head, it is a dream! it is a dream!" shouted the Senator, as he strode to and fro across the floor.

"Lose no time then in making it a reality," replied Don Estevan.

"But is the time so pressing?" inquired the Senator, suddenly pausing in his steps.

"Why this question? Is it possible to be too quick in obtaining happiness?"

The Senator appeared thoughtful, and for a moment presented an aspect of embarrassment, in strange contrast to his previous looks. He replied after a pause—

"The fact is, Don Estevan, I am willing to marry an heiress whose wealth, as is usually the case, would compensate for her ugliness. In this case it is the very beauty of the lady that confuses me."

"Perhaps she does not please you!"

"On the contrary, so much happiness awes me. It appears to me, for a reason which I cannot divine, that some sad disappointment lurks under the seductive prospect."

"Ah! just as I expected," answered Don Estevan; "it is the human heart. I knew you would make some objection of this kind, but I thought you were more a man of the world than to trouble yourself about the past with such a splendid fortune before you. Ah! my poor Despilfarro," added the Spaniard, with a laugh, "I thought you were more advanced."

"But why, Don Estevan?" inquired the Senator, intending to give a proof of his high diplomatic capacity,—"why is it, entre nous, that you desire to lavish this treasure of beauty—to say nothing of her grand wealth—upon another, while you yourself—"

"While I myself might marry her," interrupted the Spaniard. "Is that what you mean to say? Suppose I have no wish to get married. I had that desire long ago, like the rest of the world. My history has been like a great many others; that is, my sweetheart married another. It is true I adopted the means to re—to console myself, and quickly too," added Arechiza, with a dark scowl. "But who do you think I am, Don Vicente Tragaduros?"

"Who are you! why; Don Estevan de Arechiza, of course!"

"That does honour to your penetration," said the Spaniard, with a disdainful smile. "Well, then, since I have already demanded the hand of Dona Rosarita for the illustrious senator Tragaduros y Despilfarro, of course I cannot now take his place."

"But why, senor, did you not make the demand on your own account?"

"Why, because, my dear friend, were this young lady three times as beautiful, and three times as rich as she is, she would neither be beautiful enough nor rich enough for me!"

Despilfarro started with astonishment.

"Eh! and who are you then, senor, may I ask in my turn?"

"Only, as you have said, Don Estevan Arechiza," coolly replied the Spaniard.

The Senator made three or four turns across the room before he could collect his thoughts; but in obedience to the distrust that had suddenly sprung up within him, he resumed:

"There is something in all this I cannot explain, and when I can't explain a thing I can't understand it."

"Good logic," exclaimed Don Estevan, in a tone of raillery, "but am I really mistaken about you, my dear Senator? I did you the honour to believe you above certain prejudices; and even if there was anything in the past life of the beautiful Rosarita—for instance, any prejudice to be trampled under foot—is a million of dowry, besides three millions of expectation, nothing in your eyes?"

Don Estevan put this question for the purpose of sounding the morality of the man, or rather to try the strength of a tool, which he meant to make use of.

Despilfarro returned no reply.

"Now, then, I await your answer," said Don Estevan, after a pause, appearing to take pleasure in the Senator's embarrassment.

"Upon my word, Don Estevan," replied Despilfarro, "you are cruel to mystify one in this manner. I—I—Carramba! it is very embarrassing."

Don Estevan interrupted him. This hesitation on the part of Despilfarro told the Spaniard what he wished to know. An ironical smile played upon his lips, and laying aside his pleasantry, he resumed in a serious tone:

"Listen to me, Tragaduros! It would be unworthy of a gentleman to continue longer this badinage where a lady's reputation is concerned. I can assure you, then, that the past life of the Dona Rosarita is without a stain."

The Senator breathed freely.

"And now," continued Don Estevan, "it is necessary that you give me your full confidence, and I will set you an example by giving mine with a perfect frankness: the success of the noble cause I have embraced depends upon it. First, then, hear who I am. Arechiza is only a borrowed appellation. As to my real name—which you shall soon know—I made oath in my youth, that no woman, however rich or beautiful, should share it with me; therefore, now that my hair is grey do you think that I should be likely to break the oath I have so long kept? Although a wife, such as I propose for you, may ofttimes be a stepping-stone to ambition, she is oftener an obstacle."

As he said this, Don Estevan rose, and in his turn paced the floor with an agitated air. Some traces of distrust were still perceptible upon the countenance of the Senator—they were noticed by him.

"You wish for a more precise explanation?" said he; "you shall have it."

The Spaniard approached the window and closed the shutters—as if fearful that their conversation might be heard outside. He then sat down again, and requested the Senator to be seated near him.

Tragaduros watched him with a lively curiosity, at the same time lowering his eyes whenever they met the fiery glances of the Spaniard.

The latter appeared suddenly to become transformed, as if looking grander and nobler.

"Now, Senor Senator!" began he, "I am going to make known to you some secrets sufficient to turn your head."

The Senator trembled.

"When the tempter carried the Son of Man to the top of a mountain, and promised him all the kingdoms of the earth if he would fall down and worship him, he scarce offered him more than I am offering to the Senator of Arispe. As the tempter, then, I lay at your feet honours, power, and riches, if you will subscribe to my conditions."

The solemnity of this exordium, and the imposing manner of Don Estevan, following so closely upon the jocular mien he had hitherto exhibited, made a painful impression upon the mind of the Senator. There was a short moment in which he regretted being so advanced in his opinions, and during this time the great dowry of Rosarita and her rosy lips had but slight prestige for him.

"It is now twenty years," continued the Spaniard, "since I took up my real vocation in the world. Previous to that time, I believed myself made for domestic life, and indulged in those absurd dreams of love natural to young hearts. An illusion soon destroyed—an evil hour—an accident showed me the deception; and I found out that I was made for ambition—nothing more. I have therefore sought for glory and honour to satisfy my desires, and I have won them. I have conquered the right to stand uncovered in the presence of the king of Spain. Chevalier of the Order of Saint James of the Sword, I have taken part in the royal ceremonies of the white cloak and red sword; and I may say that for me fame has been no idle illusion. Chevalier also of Carlos the Third, I have shared with the royal princes the title of the Grand Cross. I have won successively the Order of Saint Ferdinand, of Saint Hermengildo, and the Golden Fleece of Calatrava. These honours, although coveted by all, were for me but sterile consolations."

This enumeration, made without the slightest show of ostentation, caused the Senator to regard the speaker with an air of respectful astonishment. Don Estevan continued:

"Wealth followed close upon these honours. Rich appanages, added to the fortune I derived from my ancestors, soon left far behind me, the time when, as a simple cadet of my family, I was worth nothing but my sword. Now I was rich, opulent, and—will I tell you?—I was still far from being content. My efforts continued; and I was made Comte de Villamares, and afterwards Duke de Armada—"

"Oh! Senor Duke," interrupted Despilfarro, in a humble voice, "permit me—but—I—"

"I have not yet finished," calmly continued the Spaniard; "when you have heard all, you will no longer doubt my words. Notwithstanding your mistrust, senor, I am still nothing more than the secret agent of a prince, and I desire to remain in your eyes, as ever, the simple gentleman Don Estevan de Arechiza—nothing more. It is necessary, however, that this distrust of me should not manifest itself again; for since you are presently to know the object which I am pursuing, you will be privy to my most secret thoughts."

The Senator continued to listen in the most respectful silence.

"As I have said, then, I followed ambition for twenty years for its own sake; or to speak more truly, I passed twenty years of my life to destroy a painful souvenir, at the same time that I was pursuing the path to fame. I fancied that in the middle of a turbulent life, this souvenir would in time be effaced from my memory. The favourite of a prince, the expectant heir to one of the first thrones in Christendom— elevated to the highest places of power—wealth prodigally lavished upon me—I hoped to be able to forget that terrible souvenir. Vain hope!" added the speaker in a solemn voice: "Alas! Nothing can banish remorse. The bloody sword of Saint James was no idle symbol in my hands; for remorse lends to ambition a fearful activity—like a voice continually crying, 'On—on forever!'"

Don Estevan paused, and for a time remained silent, during which the Senator regarded him with a timid look, at the same time admiring the imposing and solemn dignity of his countenance.

"But where to go on?" continued the speaker; "what object to follow next? Into what new course might I precipitate this torrent of ambition that was boiling within me? At length a new incident offered itself, and gave me a fresh opportunity for action—an opportunity to strive and combat—for in my case, to struggle and fight is to forget.

"In all likelihood you have scarce heard of our political troubles, Don Vicente? I am aware that all the kingdoms of Europe might be shaken to their bases, without your knowing anything of the matter, in this out of the way corner of the world. Well, then, I shall make known to you what occurred.

"It is now about two years since the king of Spain—by a total violation of the Salic law, hitherto observed by all his ancestors—violently cut off the succession to the throne in the person of his brother Don Carlos; and by this act kindled the fires of civil war throughout the kingdom. The Infanta Isabella was declared heiress to the crown, to the exclusion of her uncle, the legal heir. This prince it was of whom I spoke, and who is my august patron and protector. I did everything in my power to assuage the mortal grief that this unexpected event naturally caused to the man, whom I above all others have reason to esteem.

"Amidst the consolations which I offered him, and the plans which I proposed, one design of a gigantic nature offered itself to my imagination. True, it presented the prospect of countless dangers, and obstacles almost insurmountable; but for this very reason I adopted it.

"My dream, then, is to conquer for my master a kingdom as vast as the one of which he has been wrongfully deprived; to restore to him one of the brightest jewels of that Transatlantic crown, which his ancestors once so gloriously wore. I dream of conquering a kingdom—and that kingdom once conquered, I, a simple gentleman, intend to present it to the true heir of the Spanish monarchy—Don Carlos de Bourbon!

"Now, do you believe, Senor Senator, that Don Estevan de Arechiza has the power to bestow upon others, and without regretting it, the beauty and wealth of the daughter of a Mexican haciendado?"

The Spaniard pronounced these last words with an air of proud tranquillity, and then remained silent, awaiting their effect upon his listener.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE NEW KINGDOM.

The Mexican senator, with his contracted, or rather egoistic views, was struck dumb by the gigantic and daring design of his companion. He could only exclaim, as he respectfully pressed the hand which the Spaniard held out to him:

"Oh, Don Estevan—if you permit me still to give you this modest title— I regret my suspicions; and for the happiness which you offer me, for the grand perspective which you open before me, I promise you my life, my heart, but—"

"But! another suspicion?" asked Don Estevan, with a smile.

"No, not a suspicion of you, but a fear of some one else. Have you noticed the young man whom chance brought into our company? I have a secret presentiment that there is something between him and Dona Rosarita. He is young—he is good-looking—and they appear to have known each other a long while."

"What!" exclaimed Don Estevan, "jealous of this ragged rustic?"

"I avow," replied the Senator, "that I cannot help it. I noticed two or three times their eyes fixed upon each other with a strange expression."

"Make yourself easy about that. I know, for certain—and from Don Augustin himself I have had my information—that the heart of his daughter is free. Besides, her vanity alone would hinder her from any fancy for this droll fellow, who appears to have all the pride of a Spanish beggar. He shall be watched; and, should he have the impudence to carry his pretensions so high, it will be an easy matter to send him about his business."

In pronouncing the last words the countenance of Don Estevan appeared for a moment to wear a troubled expression, and he could not hinder himself from adding:

"I have myself remarked what you say, but let us not dwell upon chimerical fears. Listen to me, Don Vicente, while I explain more categorically the object of which I have been speaking, in order that you may understand fully why I wish to reckon upon your assistance. I have not yet told you—either what resources I have, or the kingdom it is my design to conquer."

"True enough," assented Tragaduros, "you have not."

"The province then which I intend to transform into a kingdom is neither more nor less than this of Sonora."

"What! our republican state to be changed into a monarchy!" exclaimed the Senator. "Senor Don Estevan, to attempt this will be to play with your life."

"I know it."

"But what resources do you count upon?"

"Listen: Ten years ago I was in the Spanish army, and fought against the independence of your country in this very province. I then became acquainted with its resources—its incalculable richness—and when I quitted it to go home to Europe, I had a presentiment that some day I should again return to it—as I have done. Chance at that time made me acquainted with Don Augustin, then occupied in amassing the vast wealth which to-day he so freely spends. I had the fortune to render him a service—to save his life, in fact, and prevent his house from being pillaged by the insurgents, for he did not conceal his sympathy for the Spanish cause. I afterwards kept up with him a correspondence, and learned that Sonora became every day more discontented with the federal government. I then designed my great plan, which was approved of by the prince, and at his desire I came over here. Don Augustin was among the first to whom I opened my purpose. He was flattered by the promises I was able to make in the name of my royal master, and at once placed his fortune at my disposal.

"Nothwithstanding the large pecuniary resources I have been able to dispose of, I am seeking to augment them still farther, and chance has favoured me. While here in my former campaign I made the acquaintance of an odd character—a young fellow who in turns betrayed both royalists and republicans. My relations with him recall a somewhat droll occurrence. I found that he was guiding the regiment I commanded into an ambuscade of the insurgents, and I ordered him to be hung to the first tree we should meet with. Fortunately for him my men translated the order in its most literal sense; and being at the time in the middle of vast savannahs entirely destitute of trees, the execution was held over, as it was an impossibility to perform it. The result was that in the middle of our marchings and counter-marchings the fellow escaped; and it appears did not, afterwards, hold any rancour towards me, since he has again offered his services to me. This fellow to-day goes by the name of Cuchillo. It was he whom I met at the village of Huerfano, where you saw us renew our acquaintance; and at that interview he has made known to me the secret of an immense placer of gold—whither I intend to conduct my expedition. Besides ourselves, Cuchillo alone knows the object of this enterprise," (the Spaniard did not mention the name of Tiburcio), "which is generally supposed to be merely a new expedition—like many others that have been got up to go gold seeking by chance.

"And now, Senor Senator," continued Don Estevan, "you need not proceed farther with us. You may remain here, where you will have an easy part to play, in making yourself agreeable to the fair Rosarita, while I am braving the perils of this unknown frontier. As for Cuchillo, if he attempt to play the traitor with me a second time, I shall take care to be a little more prompt in punishing him.

"The product of this expedition," pursued the Spaniard,—"of which, as leader, I shall be entitled to a fifth part—will be added to the resources I have already. The men who compose it will be easily converted into devoted partisans of our design; and should it happen that the forces I expect from Europe should fail to come to hand in due time, these adventurers will serve a good purpose. But I have no fear for the want of followers. Europe is at the present moment overcrowded with people who lack employment: any enterprise will be welcome to them; and a leader in any part of the world needs only to speak the word for crowds to enrol themselves under his banner."

As he said this, Don Estevan paced the room, agitated by the grandeur of his thoughts. His dark eyes flashed with excitement, and his soul seemed inspired with a warlike ardour that caused him for a while to forget the presence of the Senator. It was only after some minutes spent in this wild enthusiasm that he remembered an important fact—that in all projects such as he was engaged in, intrigue should be the precursor of open action; and as this was to be the peculiar role which the Senator was expected to play, he again turned to address himself to this individual.

"Meanwhile," said he, "your tactics will be of a more pacific character. I take charge of the open fighting—while you manage the secret diplomacy of the affair. Your fortune, restored to you by this opulent alliance, will enable you to get back the influence you have lost. You will receive with the daughter of Don Augustin, at least two hundred thousand dollars of dowry. Half of this you are to employ in making partisans in the Senate, and in what you are pleased to call your army. This sum you will not lose: it will be repaid to you, and with usurious interest; or if it never should, you still make a good thing of it. The end you will keep in view, is to detach the Senate of Sonora from the Federal alliance. You will find no lack of reasons for this policy. For instance, your State has now scarcely the privileges of a simple territory; your interests differ entirely from those of the central States of the Republic. Every day your laws are becoming more centralised. The President, who deals with your finances, resides at a distance of seven hundred leagues from your capital—it is ridiculous! Besides, the funds of the treasury are misappropriated—the army badly paid, although you have to do your duty in raising the tax that is to pay it—a thousand grievances can be cited. Well, this will enable you to get up a pronunciamento, and before the news of your grito can reach the city of Mexico, and the Executive power there can send a force against you—ay, before the government troops could get half-way to Sonora, more than two-thirds of them would desert. The others would come upon the ground, only to find the insurrectionary party too strong for them, and they themselves would be certain to join us.

"Laws emanating from your own Senate—of which you yourself would have the control and guidance—laws suited to the manners and usages of your State, would soon become firmly established and respected, and Sonora would then be an independent government. This would be the first step and the most difficult. After that the rest would be easy enough; and the gold which I should furnish will bring it about. The Senate and the army would call for a European prince to place himself at their head— one who speaks the same language and professes the same religion as themselves. This prince I have already provided. Now hear me, Don Vicente! as to your own share in this business. The Senator Despilfarro is already a rich man, with a lady for his wife of whom a prince might be proud. He will be made noble—a count—a Grandee of Spain. A lucrative post will attach him to the person of the new king, and nothing is to hinder him from rising to the very summit of his ambition. All this I promise on the part of your future sovereign, King Charles the First."

With these words the Spaniard finished his harangue. The Mexican Senator, fascinated by the riches and honours thus promised him, grasped the hand of the bold conspirator, at the same time crying out with enthusiasm, "Viva! Viva Carlos el Primero!"

"Good!" rejoined Don Estevan, with a smile. "Don Carlos can count upon one powerful partisan already in Sonora, and there will soon be many. But it is getting late, Don Vicente, and I have yet much business to do before I can go to sleep. You will excuse me, then, if I bid good-night to you."

After exchanging the usual buenas noches, the Senator returned to his own chamber and couch, to dream of his future riches and grandeur.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

QUARRELSOME GAMESTERS.

In a remote chamber of the hacienda were lodged the four adventurers, Pedro Diaz, Oroche, Cuchillo, and Baraja. These gentlemen were not slow in becoming acquainted with one another, and this acquaintance was soon of the most familiar character. In the middle of the room in which all four were to pass the night, stood a strong oaken table, upon which, in an iron candlestick, was burning a long thin tallow candle, that gave forth a somewhat dim and doubtful light. By this light Cuchillo and Baraja—forgetful of all their promises and vows—were going on with the game, which had been so suddenly interrupted that morning at the village of Huerfano.

Pedro Diaz appeared to be merely an involuntary spectator; while Oroche, seated at one corner of the table, his right leg across his left, his elbow resting on his knee—the favourite attitude of mandolin players— accompanied his own voice as he sang the boleros and fandangos then most in vogue among the inhabitants of the coast region.

Wrapped as usual in his ragged cloak, Oroche appeared to have the true inspiration of an artist: since he could thus elevate himself upon the wings of music, above the vulgar consideration of the toilette, or the cleanliness and comfort of the person. A bottle of mezcal, already half empty, stood upon the table. From this the players occasionally helped themselves—as a finale to the elegant supper they had eaten and to which Cuchillo, Baraja, and Oroche had done ample honour. Notwithstanding the frequent bumpers which Cuchillo had quaffed, he appeared to be in the worst of humour, and a prey to the most violent passions. His shaggy eyebrows, contracted by the play of these passions, added to the evil aspect of his physiognomy, rendering it even more sinister than common. Just then he was observed to cut the cards with particular care. He was not playing with his friend Baraja for the mere sport of the thing; for a moiety of the half ounce he had received from Don Estevan had already gone into Baraja's pockets, and Cuchillo was in hopes that the attention which he had given to the cutting of the cards might change the luck that had hitherto been running against him. The careful cutting, however, went for nothing; and once more the sum he had staked was swept into the pocket of his adversary. All at once Cuchillo flew off into a passion, scattering his hand of cards over the table.

"Who the devil wants your music?" cried he to Oroche in a furious tone, "and I myself, fool that I am, to play in this fashion—only credit when I win, and cash whenever I lose."

"You offend me, Senor Cuchillo," said Baraja, "my word has always passed for its value in cash."

"Especially when you don't happen to lose," sneeringly added Cuchillo.

"That is not a very delicate insinuation," said Baraja gathering up the cards. "Fye, fye! Senor Cuchillo—to get angry about such a trifle! I myself have lost half a hacienda at play—after being robbed of the other half—and yet I never said a word about it."

"Didn't you indeed? what's that to me? I shall speak as I please, Senor Baraja, and as loudly as I please too," added he, placing his hand upon the hilt of his knife.

"Yes," coolly answered Baraja, "I know you use words that cause your friends to drop dead; but these words are harmless at a distance— besides I have got a tongue as sharp as yours, Senor Cuchillo."

As Baraja said this, he drew his knife from its sheath—in which action he was imitated by his antagonist—and both placed themselves simultaneously in an attitude for fight.

Oroche coolly took up his mandolin—which at the interference of Cuchillo he had laid aside—and, like a bard of ancient times was, preparing to accompany the combat with a chant, when Diaz suddenly interposed between the two champions.

"For shame, gentlemen!" cried he; "what! two men made to be mutual friends, thus to cut each other's throats for a few paltry dollars! on the eve too of becoming the owners of a hundred times as much! Have I not understood you to say, Senor Cuchillo, that you were to be the guide of our expedition? Your life is no more your own, then; it belongs to us all, and you have no right to risk it. And you, Senor Baraja! you have not the right to attempt the life of our guide. Come! put up your knives, and let there be no more of this matter."

This speech recalled the two combatants to their senses. Cuchillo remembering the grand interest he had in the success of the expedition, and perceiving that the risk of life was playing a little too high—for a combat of this sort usually ends in the death of one or the other— gave ready ear to the counsel of Diaz. Baraja, on his side, reflected that the dollars he had already pocketed might be better employed than in defraying the expenses of his own funeral; and on this reflection was equally ready to desist from his intention.

"Be it so, then!" cried Cuchillo, speaking first; "I sacrifice my feelings to the common good."

"And I," said Baraja, "I am willing to follow so noble an example. I disarm—but—I shall play no more."

The knives were again stuck into their scabbards, and the two adversaries mutually extended their hands to one another.

At this moment, Diaz, by way of preventing any allusion to the recent quarrel, suddenly turning to Cuchillo, demanded:

"Who, Senor Cuchillo, is this young man whom I saw riding by your side as you came up to the hacienda? Notwithstanding the friendship that appeared to exist between you and him, if I mistake not, I observed you regarding one another with an occasional glance of mistrust—not to say hostility. Was it not so?"

Cuchillo recounted how they had found Tiburcio half dead upon the road, and also the other circumstances, already known to the reader; but the question put by Diaz had brought the red colour into the face of the outlaw, for it recalled to him how his cunning had been outwitted by the young man, and also how he had been made to tremble a moment under Tiburcio's menace. Writhing under these remembrances, he was now determined to make his vengeance more secure, by enlisting his associates as accomplices of his design.

"It often happens," said he, in a significant tone, "that one man's interest must be sacrificed to the common welfare—just as I have now done—does it not?"

"Without doubt," replied several.

"Well then," continued Cuchillo, "when one has given himself, body and soul, to any cause, whatever it may be, it becomes his duty, as in my case, to put a full and complete constraint upon his affections, his passions, even his dearest interests—ay, even upon any scruples of conscience that might arise in an over-delicate mind."

"All the world knows that," said Baraja.

"Just so, gentlemen. Well, I feel myself in that difficulty; I have a too timid conscience, I fear, and I want your opinions to guide me."

His audience maintained an imperturbable silence.

"Suppose, then," continued the outlaw, "there was a man whom you all held in the highest esteem, but whose life compromised the success of our expedition, what should be done with him?"

"As God lives," cried Oroche, "I should be happy to find some occasion of sacrificing private interests to the common good."

"But is there such a man?" inquired Diaz, "and who may he be?"

"It's a long story," replied Cuchillo, "and its details concern only myself—but there is such a man."

"Carajo!" exclaimed Oroche, "that is enough; he should be got rid of as speedily as possible."

"Is that the advice of all of you?" asked Cuchillo.

"Of course," answered simultaneously Oroche and Baraja.

Diaz remained silent keeping himself out of this mysterious compromise. After a little, he rose from his seat, and under some pretext left the chamber.

"Well, then, gentlemen," said Cuchillo, addressing himself to his two more facile comrades, "you are fully of the opinion that the man should be got rid of? Let me tell you, then, that this man is no other than Tiburcio Arellanos."

"Tiburcio!" exclaimed the two acolytes.

"Himself—and although, since he is one of my dearest friends, it goes sadly against my heart, I declare to you that his life may render abortive all the plans of our expedition."

"But," interposed Baraja, "why may he not lose it?—to-morrow in this hunt of wild horses there will be a thousand opportunities of his losing it?"

"True enough," said Cuchillo, in a solemn voice. "It is of great importance he should not return from this hunt. Can I rely upon you, gentlemen?"

"Blindly!" replied the two adventurers.

The storm was gathering over the head of poor Tiburcio, but danger threatened him from still another quarter; and long before the expected hunt, that danger would be at its height.

The three adventurers continued their conversation, and were entering more particularly into the details of their design, when a knocking at the outer door interrupted their sinister councils.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

TIBURCIO IN DANGER.

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

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

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

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

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

"Well," continued Don Estevan, "what have you learnt?"

"Nothing," replied Cuchillo.

"Nothing!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I flatter myself, my perspicacity—"

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

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

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

"What do you mean, senor?" demanded Cuchillo, evidently confounded by the reproach.

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

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

"Yes—in saving this young man's life."

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

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