thoughts
from scientific curiosity to something of fear.

The bloodhounds that have lagged behind in the scurry across the plain,
now close up; and, instead of stopping by the side of Lolita, rush on
towards the yucca. It is not the odour of the dead buzzard--strong as
that may be--that attracts them; but the scent of what is more congenial
to their sanguinary instincts.

On arriving at the tree they run round to its opposite side; and then
spring growling back, as if something they have encountered there has
suddenly brought them to bay.

"A wounded bear or wolf!" is the muttered reflection of their mistress.

It has scarce passed her lips, when she is made aware of her mistake.
Above the continued baying of the dogs she can distinguish the tones of
a human voice; and at the same instant, a man's head and arm appear
above the spikes of the plant--a hand clutching the hilt of a
long-bladed knife!

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

"DOWN, DOGS!"

Notwithstanding her apparent _sang-froid_, and the presence of mind she
surely possesses, the rider of Lolita is affrighted--far more than the
vultures, that have soared higher at her approach.

And no wonder that she is affrighted at such a strange apparition--the
head of a man, with a dark moustache on his lip, holding in his hand a
blade that shows blood upon it! This, too, in such a solitary place!

Her first thought is to turn Lolita's head and hurry off from the spot.
Then a reflection stays her. The man is evidently alone, and the
expression on his countenance is neither that of villainy nor anger.
The colour of his skin, with the moustache, bespeak him a white man, and
not an Indian. Besides, there is pallor upon his cheeks--a wan, wasted
look, that tells of suffering, not sin.

All this the quick eye of the huntress takes in at a glance, resolving
her how to act. Instead of galloping away she urges the mustang on
towards the yucca.

When close up to it she flings herself out of the saddle, and, whip in
hand, rushes up to the hounds, that are still giving tongue and
threatening to spring upon the stranger.

"_Abajo, perros! abajo, feos_!" (Down, dogs! down, you ugly brutes!)

"_A tierra_!" she continues to scold, giving each a sharp cut that at
once reduces them to quiescence, causing them to cower at her feet. "Do
you not see the mistake you have made?" she goes on addressing the dogs;
"don't you see the caballero is not an Indio? It is well, sir!" she