is horoscope? What reptile is gnawing at his heart, that not
even the sparkling wine of El Paso can drown? Saint Vrain is
speechless; Saint Vrain is sighing; Saint Vrain is sad! I half divine
the cause. Saint Vrain is--

The tread of light feet upon the stone stairway--the rustling of female
dresses!

They are ascending. They are Madame Seguin, Adele, Zoe.

I look at the mother--at her features. They, too, are shaded by a
melancholy expression. Why is not she happy? Why not joyous, having
recovered her long-lost, much-loved child? Ah! she has not yet
recovered her!

I turn my eyes on the daughter--the elder one--the queen. That is the
strangest expression of all.

Have you seen the captive ocelot? Have you seen the wild bird that
refuses to be tamed, but against the bars of its cage-prison still beats
its bleeding wings? If so, it may help you to fancy that expression. I
cannot depict it.

She is no longer in the Indian costume. That has been put aside. She
wears the dress of civilised life, but she wears it reluctantly. She
has shown this, for the skirt is torn in several places, and the bodice,
plucked open, displays her bosom, half-nude, heaving under the wild
thoughts which agitate it.

She accompanies them, but not us a companion. She has the air of a
prisoner, the air of the eagle whose wings have been clipped. She
regards neither mother nor sister. Their constant kindness has failed
to impress her.

The mother has led her to the azotea, and let go her hand. She walks no
longer with them, but crouching, and in starts, from place to place,
obedient to the impulse of strong emotions.

She has reached the western wing of the azotea, and stands close up
against the parapet, gazing over--gazing upon the Mimbres. She knows
them well, those peaks of sparkling selenite, those watch-towers of the
desert land: she knows them well. Her heart is with her eyes.

We stand watching her, all of us. She is the object of common
solicitude. She it is who keeps between all hearts and the light. The
father looks sadly on; the mother looks sadly on; Zoe looks sadly on;
Saint Vrain, too. No! that is a different expression. His gaze is the
gaze of--

She has turned suddenly. She perceives that we are all regarding her
with attention. Her eyes wander from one to the other. They are fixed
upon the glance of Saint Vrain!

A change comes over her countenance--a sudden change, from dark to
bright