Vrain had promised. My ten thousand dollars had been trebled. Saint
Vrain, too, was master of a large amount; and we were enabled to bestow
our bounty on those of our late comrades who had proved themselves
worthy.

But most of them had received "bounty" from another source. As we rode
out from El Paso, I chanced to look back. There was a long string of
dark objects waving over the gates. There was no mistaking what they
were, for they were unlike anything else. They were scalps!

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.

TOUCHING THE CHORDS OF MEMORY.

It is the second evening after our arrival at the old house on the Del
Norte. We have gone up to the azotea--Seguin, Saint Vrain, and myself;
I know not why, but guided thither by our host. Perhaps he wishes to
look once more over that wild land, the theatre of so many scenes in his
eventful life; once more, for upon the morrow he leaves it for ever.
Our plans have been formed; we journey upon the morrow; we are going
over the broad plains to the waters of the Mississippi. They go with
us.

It is a lovely evening, and warm. The atmosphere is elastic; such an
atmosphere as you can find only on the high tables of the western world.
It seems to act upon all animated nature, judging from its voices.
There is joy in the songs of the birds, in the humming of the homeward
bees. There is a softness, too, in those sounds that reach us from the
farther forest; those sounds usually harsh; the voices of the wilder and
fiercer creatures of the wilderness. All seem attuned to peace and
love.

The song of the arriero is joyous; for many of these are below, packing
for our departure.

I, too, am joyous. I have been so for days; but the light atmosphere
around, and the bright prospect before me, have heightened the
pulsations of my happiness.

Not so my companions on the azotea. Both seem sad.

Seguin is silent. I thought he had climbed up here to take a last look
of the fair valley. Not so. He paces backward and forward with folded
arms, his eyes fixed upon the cemented roof. They see no farther; they
see not at all. The eye of his mind only is active, and that is looking
inward. His air is abstracted; his brow is clouded; his thoughts are
gloomy and painful. I know the cause of all this. She is still a
stranger!

But Saint Vrain--the witty, the buoyant, the sparkling Saint Vrain--what
misfortune has befallen him? What cloud is crossing the rose-coloured
field of h