elected their stations, facing respectively about
north and south, with the planet of love between them, as it were.
"Oblige me by giving the word, senor," said Freeman, cocking his weapon.

But Don Miguel was staring with perturbed visage at something behind
his antagonist. "Santa Maria!" he faltered, "what is yonder? It is a
spirit!"

Freeman had his wits about him, and perhaps entertained a not too high
opinion of Mexican fair play. So, before turning round, he advanced till
he was alongside his companion. Then he looked, and saw something which
was certainly enigmatic.

Among the wild-mustard plants there appeared a moving luminosity,
having an irregular, dancing motion, as of a will-o'-the-wisp singularly
agitated. Sometimes it uplifted itself on high, then plunged downwards,
and again jerked itself from side to side; occasionally it would quite
vanish for an instant. Accompanying this manifestation there was a
clawing and reaching of shadowy arms: altogether, it was as if some
titanic spectral grasshopper, with a heart of fire, were writhing and
kicking in convulsions of phantom agony. Such an apparition, in an hour
and a place so lonely, might stagger a less superstitious soul than that
of Don Miguel de Mendoza.

Freeman gazed at it for a moment in silence. It mystified him, and
then irritated him. When one is bent heart and soul upon an important
enterprise, any interruption is an annoyance. Perhaps there was in the
young American's nature just enough remains of belief in witches and
hobgoblins to make him feel warranted in resorting to extreme measures.
At any rate, he lifted his revolver, and fired.

It was a long shot for a revolver: nevertheless it took effect. The
luminous object disappeared with a faint explosive sound, followed by a
shout unmistakably human. The long stems of the wild mustard swayed
and parted, and out sprang a figure, which ran straight towards the two
young men.

Hereupon, Don Miguel, hissing out an appeal to the Virgin and the
saints, turned and fled.

Meanwhile, the mysterious figure continued its onward career; and
Freeman once more levelled his weapon,--when a voice, which gave him
such a start of surprise as well-nigh caused him to pull the trigger
for sheer lack of self-command, called out, "Why, you abominable young
villain! What the mischief do you mean? Do you want to be hanged?"

"Professor Meschines!" faltered Freeman.

It was indeed that worthy personage, and he w