"_Yo entiendo, Dona Isidora_."

The mayor-domo moves away, and is soon lost to sight behind the crest of the hill.

The lady of the lazo is once more alone in the glade. She springs out of her saddle; dons serape and sombrero; and is again the _beau-ideal_ of a youthful hidalgo.

She remounts slowly, mechanically--as if her thoughts do not company the action. Languidly she lifts her limb over the horse. The pretty foot is for a second or two poised in the air.

Her ankle, escaping from the skirt of her _enagua_, displays a tournure to have crazed Praxiteles. As it descends on the opposite side of the horse, a cloud seems to overshadow the sun. Simon Stylites could scarce have closed his eyes on the spectacle.

But there is no spectator of this interesting episode; not even the wretched Jose; who, the moment after, comes skulking into the glade.

He is questioned, without circ.u.mlocution, upon the subject of the strayed letter.

"What have you done with it, sirrah?"

"Delivered it, my lady."

"To whom?"

"I left it at--at--the _posada_," he replies, stammering and turning pale. "Don Mauricio had gone out."

"A lie, _lepero_! You gave it to Don Miguel Diaz. No denial, sir!

I've seen it since."

"O Senora, pardon! pardon! I am not guilty--indeed I am not."

"Stupid, you should have told your story better. You have committed yourself. How much did Don Miguel pay you for your treason?"

"As I live, lady, it was not treason. He--he--forced it from me--by threats--blows. I--I--was not paid."

"You shall be, then! I discharge you from my service; and for wages take that, and that, and that--"

For at least ten times are the words repeated--the riding whip at each repet.i.tion descending upon the shoulders of the dishonest messenger.

He essays to escape by running off. In vain. He is brought up again by the dread of being ridden over, and trampled under the hoofs of the excited horse.

Not till the blue wheals appear upon his brown skin, does the chastis.e.m.e.nt cease.

"Now, sirrah; from my sight! and let me see you no more. _Al monte! al monte_!"

With ludicrous alacrity the command is obeyed. Like a scared cat the discharged servitor rushes out of the glade; only too happy to hide himself, and his shame, under the shadows of the th.o.r.n.y thicket.

But a little while longer does Isidora remain upon the spot--her anger giving place to a profound chagrin. Not only has she been baffled from carrying out her design; but her heart's secret is now in the keeping of traitors!

Once more she heads her horse homeward. She arrives in time to be present at a singular spectacle. The people--peons, vaqueros, and employes of every kind--are hurrying to and fro, from field to corral, from corral to courtyard one and all giving tongue to terrified e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns. The men are on their feet arming in confused haste; the woman on their knees, praying pitifully to heaven--through the intercession of a score of those saints, profusely furnished by the Mexican hierarchy to suit all times and occasions.

"What is causing the commotion?"

This is the question asked by Isidora.

The mayor-domo--who chances to be the first to present himself--is the individual thus interrogated.

A man has been murdered somewhere out upon the prairie.

The victim is one of the new people who have lately taken possession of Caso del Corvo--the son of the American haciendado himself.

Indians are reported to have done the deed.

Indians! In this word is the key to the excitement among Don Silvio's servitors.

It explains both the praying and the hurried rushing to arms.

The fact that a man has been murdered--a slight circ.u.mstance in that land of unbridled emotions--would have produced no such response--more especially when the man was a stranger, an "Americano."

But the report that Indians are abroad, is altogether a different affair. In it there is an idea of danger.

The effect produced on Isidora is different. It is not fear of the savages. The name of the "asesinado" recalls thoughts that have already given her pain. She knows that there is a sister, spoken of as being wonderfully beautiful. She has herself looked upon this beauty, and cannot help believing in it.

A keener pang proceeds from something else she has heard: that this peerless maiden has been seen in the company of Maurice Gerald. There is no fresh jealousy inspired by the news of the brother's death--only the old unpleasantness for the moment revived.

The feeling soon gives place to the ordinary indifference felt for the fate of those with whom we have no acquaintance.

Some hours later, and this indifference becomes changed to a painful interest; in short, an apprehension. There are fresh reports about the murder. It has been committed, not by Comanches; but by a white man--by _Maurice the mustanger_!

There are no Indians near.

This later edition of "novedades," while tranquilising Don Silvio's servants, has the contrary effect upon his niece. She cannot rest under the rumour; and half-an-hour afterwards, she is seen reining up her horse in front of the village hotel.

For some weeks, with motive unknown, she has been devoting herself to the study of _La lengua Americana_. Her vocabulary of English words, still scanty, is sufficient for her present purpose; which is to acquire information, not about the murder, but the man accused of committing it.

The landlord, knowing who she is, answers her inquiries with obsequious politeness.

She learns that Maurice Gerald is no longer his guest, with "full particulars of the murder," so far as known.

With a sad heart she rides back to the Hacienda Martinez. On reaching the house, she finds its tranquillity again disturbed. The new cause of excitement might have been deemed ludicrous; though it is not so regarded by the superst.i.tious _peons_. A rare rumour has reached the place. A man without a head--_un hombre descabezado_--has been seen riding about the plains, somewhere near the Rio Nueces!

Despite its apparent absurdity, there can be no doubting the correctness of the report. It is rife throughout the settlement. But there is still surer confirmation of it. A party of Don Silvio's own people-- herdsmen out in search of strayed cattle--have seen the _cavallero descabezado_; and, desisting from their search, had ridden away from him, as they would have done from the devil!

The _vaqueros_--there are three of them--are all ready to swear to the account given. But their scared looks furnish a more trustworthy evidence of its truthfulness.

The sun goes down upon a _congeries_ of frightful rumours. Neither these nor the protestations of Don Silvio and his sister can prevent their capricious niece from carrying out a resolution she seems suddenly to have formed--which is, to ride back to the Rio Grande. It makes no difference to her, that a murder has been committed on the road she will have to take; much less that near it has been seen the ghastly apparition of a headless horseman! What to any other traveller should cause dismay, seems only to attract Isidora.

She even proposes making the journey _alone_! Don Silvio offers an escort--half a score of his _vaqueros_, armed to the teeth. The offer is rejected. Will she take Benito? No. She prefers journeying alone.

In short, she is determined upon it.