ld
tell from the attitudes of our animals. We had passed the level plains,
and were entering among the "foothills" of the Mexican mountains. There
was no passing or repassing of one another. From this I concluded that
we were journeying along a narrow road, and in single file.

Raoul was directly in front of me, and we could converse at times.

"Where do you think they are taking us, Raoul?" I inquired, speaking in
French.

"To Cenobio's hacienda. I hope so, at least!"

"Why do you hope so?"

"Because we shall stand some chance for our lives. Cenobio is a noble
fellow."

"You know him, then?"

"Yes, Captain; I have helped him a little in the contraband trade."

"A smuggler, is he?"

"Why, in this country it is hardly fair to call it by so harsh a name,
as the Government itself dips out of the same dish. Smuggling here, as
in most other countries, should be looked upon rather as the offspring
of necessity and maladministration than as a vice in itself. Cenobio is
a _contrabandisto_, and upon a large scale."

"And you are a political philosopher, Raoul!"

"Bah! Captain; it would be bad if I could not defend my own calling,"
replied my comrade, with a laugh.

"You think, then, that we are in the hands of Cenobio's men."

"I am sure of it, Captain. _Sacre_! had it been Jarauta's band, we
would have been in heaven--that is, our souls--and our bodies would now
be embellishing some of the trees upon Don Cosme's plantation. Heaven
protect us from Jarauta! The robber-priest gives but short shrift to
any of his enemies; but if he could lay his hands on your humble
servant, you would see hanging done in double-quick time."

"Why think you we are with Cenobio's guerilla?"

"I know Yanez, whom we saw at the rancho. He is one of Cenobio's
officers, and the leader of this party, which is only a detachment. I
am rather surprised that _he_ has brought us away, considering that
Dubrosc is with him; there must have been some influence in our favour
which I cannot understand."

I was struck by the remark, and began to reflect upon it in silence.
The voice of the Frenchman again fell upon my ear.

"I cannot be mistaken. No--this hill--it runs down to the San Juan
River."

Again, after a short interval, as we felt ourselves fording a stream,
Raoul said:

"Yes, the San Juan--I know the stony bottom--just the depth, too, at
this season."

Our mules plunged through the swift current, flinging the spray