through which he has of late been
straying.

He lies thinking of the beautiful being who brought him thither, shaping
conjectures in regard to the strangeness of the situation. He has no
idea how long he may have been unconscious; nor has the whole time been
like death--unless death have its dreams. For he has had dreams, all
with a fair form and lovely face flitting and figuring in them. It is
the wild huntress.

He has a fancy that the face seemed familiar to him; or, if not
familiar, one he has looked upon before. He endeavours to recall all
those he had met in Mexico during his sojourn there; for if encountered
anywhere, it must have been there. His female acquaintances had been
but few in that foreign land. He can remember every one of them. She
is not of their number. If he has ever seen her before their encounter
on the Staked Plain, it must have been while passing along the street of
some Mexican city.

And this could scarcely be, in his silent reflection; for such a woman
once seen--even but for a moment--could never be forgotten.

He lies pondering on all that has passed--on all he can now recall.
Walt had got back, then, to the place where they parted. He must have
found food and water, though it matters now no more. Enough that he has
got back, and both are in an asylum of safety, under friendly
protection. This is evident from the surroundings.

Still feeble as a child, the effort of thought very soon fatigues him;
and this, with the narcotic influence of the flower perfume, the songs
of the birds, and the soothing monotone of the waters, produces a
drowsiness that terminates in a profound slumber. This time he sleeps
without dreaming.

How long he cannot tell; but once more he is awakened by voices. As
before, two persons are engaged in conversation. But far different from
those already heard. The bird-music still swelling in through the
window is less sweet than the tones that now salute his ear.

As before, the speakers are invisible, outside the room. But he can
perceive that they are close to the door, and the first words heard
admonish him of their design to enter.

"Now, Conchita! Go get the wine, and bring it along with you. The
doctor left directions for it to be given him at this hour."

"I have it here, senorita."

"_Vaya_! you have forgotten the glass. You would not have him drink out
of the bottle?"

"_Ay Dios_! and so I have," responds Conchita, apparently glid