search.

"It must be the Mystery Queen," says one.

"Yes, yes!" cries Seguin, in trembling anxiety; "it is; she is the
Mystery Queen."

"She is in the town, then," adds another.

"Where? where?" ejaculates the halt-frantic father.

"Where? where?" echo the girls, questioning one another.

"I saw her this morning, a short time ago, just before you came up."

"I saw him hurry her off," adds a second, pointing upward to the old
Indian. "He has hidden her."

"Caval!" cries another, "perhaps in the estufa!"

"The estufa! what is it?"

"Where the sacred fire burns; where he makes his medicine."

"Where is it? lead me to it!"

"Ay de mi! we know not the way. It is a sacred place where they burn
people! Ay de mi!"

"But, senor, it is in this temple; somewhere under the ground. He
knows. None but he is permitted to enter it. Carrai! The estufa is a
fearful place. So say the people."

An indefinite idea that his daughter may be in danger crosses the mind
of Seguin. Perhaps she is dead already, or dying by some horrid means.
He is struck, so are we, with the expression of sullen malice that
displays itself upon the countenance of the medicine chief. It is
altogether an Indian expression--that of dogged determination to die
rather than yield what he has made up his mind to keep. It is a look of
demoniac cunning, characteristic of men of his peculiar calling among
the tribes.

Haunted by this thought, Seguin runs to the ladder, and again springs
upward to the root, followed by several of the band. He rushes upon the
lying priest, clutching him by the long hair.

"Lead me to her!" he cries, in a voice of thunder; "lead me to this
queen, this Mystery Queen! She is my daughter."

"Your daughter! the Mystery Queen!" replies the Indian, trembling with
fear for his life, yet still resisting the appeal. "No, white man; she
is not. The queen is ours. She is the daughter of the Sun. She is the
child of a Navajo chief."

"Tempt me no longer, old man! No longer, I say. Look forth! If a hair
of her head has been harmed, all these shall suffer. I will not leave a
living thing in your town. Lead on! Bring me to the estufa!"

"To the estufa! to the estufa!" shout several voices.

Strong hands grasp the garments of the Indian, and are twined into his
loose hair. Knives, already red and reeking, are brandished before his
eyes. He is forced from the roof, and hurried down the ladders.

He ceases to