We found shelter in a pretty grove of acacias, and a grassy turf on which to repose. My wearied followers soon fell asleep.

I slept not; I watched over the slumbers of my betrothed. Her beautiful head rested upon my knees; her soft damask cheek was pillowed upon the robe of jaguar-skins, and my eyes were upon it. The thick tresses had fallen aside, and I saw--

The matador, too, had been merciful! or had gold bribed him from his cruel intent? No matter which--he had failed in his fiendish duty.

There in full entirety were those delicate organs--perfect, complete. I saw but the trifling scar where the gold circlet had been rudely plucked--the source of that red haemorrhage that had been noticed by Cyprio!

I was too happy to sleep.

It was our last night upon the prairies. Before the setting of another sun we had crossed the Rio Grande, and arrived in the camp of our army.

Under the broad protecting wings of the American eagle, my betrothed could repose in safety, until that blissful hour when--

Of the Comanches we never heard more. The story of one only was afterwards told--a fearful tale. Ill-fated Wakono! A horrid end was his.

An oft-told tale by the prairie camp-fire is that of the skeleton of an Indian warrior found clasping the trunk of a tree! Wakono had horribly perished.

We had no design of giving him to such a fate. Without thought had we acted; and though he may have deserved death, we had not designed for him such terrible retribution.

Perhaps I was the only one who had any remorseful feeling; but the remembrance of that scalp-bedecked shield--the scenes in that Cyprian grove--those weeping captives, wedded to a woeful lot--the remembrance of these cruel realities evermore rose before my mind, stifling the remorse I should otherwise have felt for the doom of the ill-starred savage. His death, though terrible in kind, was merited by his deeds; and was perhaps as just as punishments usually are.

Poetical justice demands the death of Ijurra, and by the hand of Holingsworth. Truth enables me to satisfy the demand.

On my return to the camp, I learned that the act was already consummated--the brother's blood had been avenged!

It was a tragic tale, and would take many chapters in the telling. I may not give them here. Let a few particulars suffice.

From that dread night, Holingsworth had found a willing hand to aid him in his purpose of retribution--one who yearned for vengeance keenly as himself. Wheatley was the man.

The two, with a chosen party, had thrown themselves on the trail of the guerrilla; and with Pedro as their guide, had followed it far within the hostile lines. Like sleuth-hounds had they followed it night and day, until they succeeded in tracking the guerrilleros to their lair.

It was a desperate conflict--hand to hand, and knife to knife--but the rangers at length triumphed; most of the guerrilleros were slain, and the band nearly annihilated.

Ijurra fell by Holingsworth's own hand; while the death of the red ruffian El Zorro, by the bowie knife of the Texan lieutenant, was an appropriate punishment for the cruelty inflicted upon Conchita. The revenge of both was complete, though both still bore the sorrow within their hearts.

The expedition of the two lieutenants was productive of other fruits.

In the head-quarters of the guerrilla they found many prisoners, Yankees and Ayankieados--among others, that rare diplomatist Don Ramon de Vargas.

Of course the old gentleman was released from captivity; and had arrived at the American camp, just in time to welcome his fair daughter and future son-in-law from their grand ante-hymeneal "tour upon the prairies."