he last speech of Tiburcio had caused them to
exchange a rapid glance. The countenance of the outlaw betrayed an
expression of rage mingled with shame. After the impudent manner in
which he had boasted of his penetration, he felt confounded in the
presence of Don Estevan, whose eyes were fixed upon him with a look of
implacable raillery.

"We shall see now," whispered the Spaniard, "whether this young fellow
knows no more of the situation of the Golden Valley than he does of the
Garden of Eden."

Cuchillo quailed under this terrible irony, but made no reply.

As yet Don Estevan had learnt nothing new. The essential object with
him was to discover whether Tiburcio's passion was reciprocated: the
rest was of little importance. In the behaviour of Rosarita there was
certainly something that betrayed a tender compassion for the adopted
son of Arellanos; but was this a sign of love? That was the question to
which Don Estevan desired to have the answer.

Meanwhile, having excited the evil passions of the outlaw to the highest
pitch, he judged it prudent to moderate them again; an explosion at that
moment would not have been politic on his part. A murder committed
before his face, even though he had not ordered it either by word or
gesture, would at least exhibit a certain complicity with the assassin,
and deprive him of that authority which he now exercised over Cuchillo.

"Not for your life!" said he, firmly grasping the arm of the outlaw,
whose hand rested upon his knife. "Not for your soul's safety!
Remember! till I give the word, the life of this young man is sacred.
Hush!" he continued, "listen!" and still holding the outlaw by the arm
he turned his eyes upon Tiburcio, who had again commenced speaking.

"Why should I conceal it from you longer?" exclaimed the young man, in a
tone to which the attentive attitude of Rosarita had lent animation.
"Hear me, then! honours--riches--power I can lay at your feet, but you
alone can enable me to effect this miracle."

Rosarita fixed her eyes upon the speaker with an interrogatory
expression.

"Perhaps I should have told you sooner," continued Tiburcio, "that my
adopted mother no longer lives--"

"I know it," interrupted the young girl, "you are alone in the world; I
heard it this evening from my father."

The voice of Rosarita, in pronouncing these words, was soft as the
breeze that sighed through the groves of oranges; and her hand, falling
as if by chance into