hee he speaks," said Faquita.

The sick man was faintly articulating through a few tiny bubbles that
broke upon his rigid lips. "He--dared--me! He--said--I was old--too
old."

"Who dared thee? Who said thou wast too old?" asked the eager Faquita,
bending over him.

"He, Koorotora himself! in the shape of a coyote."

Faquita fell back with a little giggle, half of shame, half of awe.

"It is ever thus," said Sanchez, sententiously; "it is what he said
last night, when I picked him up on the mound. He will sleep now--thou
shalt see. He will get no further than Koorotora and the coyote--and
then he will sleep."

And to the awe of the group, and the increased respect for Sanchez's
wisdom, Pereo seemed to fall again into a lethargic slumber. It was
late in the evening when he appeared to regain perfect consciousness.
"Ah--what is this?" he said, roughly, sitting up in bed, and eying the
watchers around him, some of whom had succumbed to sleep, and others
were engaged in playing cards. "Caramba! are ye mad? Thou, Sanchez,
here; who shouldst be at thy work in the stables! Thou, Pepita, is thy
mistress asleep or dead, that thou sittest here? Blessed San Antonio!
would ye drive me mad?" He lifted his hand to his head, with a dull
movement of pain, and attempted to rise from the bed.

"Softly, good Pereo; lie still," said Sanchez, approaching him. "Thou
hast been ill--so ill. These, thy friends, have been waiting only for
this moment to be assured that thou art better. For this idleness
there is no blame--truly none. The Dona Maria has said that thou
shouldst lack no care; and, truly, since the terrible news there has
been little to do."

"The terrible news?" repeated Pereo.

Sanchez cast a meaning glance upon the others, as if to indicate this
coaffirmation of his diagnosis.

"Ay, terrible news! The Doctor West was found this morning dead two
miles from the casa."

"Dr. West dead!" repeated Pereo, slowly, as if endeavoring to master
the real meaning of the words. Then, seeing the vacuity of his
question reflected on the faces of those around him, he added,
hurriedly, with a feeble smile, "O--ay--dead! Yes! I remember. And he
has been ill--very ill, eh?"

"It was an accident. He was thrown from his horse, and so killed,"
returned Sanchez, gravely.

"Killed--by his horse! sayest thou?" said Pereo, with a sudden fixed
look in his eye.

"Ay, good Pereo. Dost thou not remember when the mustang bo