oom, Conchita having
gone before.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

DON VALERIAN.

Hamersley lies pondering on what he has seen and heard, more especially
on what he has overheard--that sweet soliloquy. Few men are insensible
to flattery. And flattery from fair lips! He must be indeed near death
whose heart-pulsations it does not affect.

But Don Prospero! Who is he? Is he the owner of the voice heard in
dialogue with Walt Wilder? May he be the owner of all? This thought
troubles the Kentuckian.

Approaching footsteps put a stop to his conjectures. There are voices
outside, one of them the same late sounding so sweetly in his ears. The
other is a man's, but not his who was conversing with Wilder. Nor is it
that of the ex-Ranger himself. It is Don Prospero, who soon after
enters the room, the lady leading the way.

A man of nigh sixty years of age, spare form and face, hair grizzled,
cheeks wrinkled; withal hale and hearty, as can be told by the pleasant
sparkle of his eye. Dressed in a semi-military suit, of a subdued tint,
and facings that tell of the medical staff.

At a glance there is no danger in Don Prospero. The invalid feels
easier, and breathes freely.

"Glad to see you looking so well," says Don Prospero, taking hold of his
patient's wrist and trying the pulse. "Ah! much more regular; it will
be all right now. Keep quiet, and we shall soon get you on your feet
again. Come, senor! A little more of this grape-juice will do you no
harm. Nothing like our New Mexican wine for bringing back a sick man to
his appetite. After that, we shall give you some wild-turkey broth and
a bone to pick. In a day or two you'll be able to eat anything."

Other personages are now approaching the chamber. The lady glides out,
calling,--

"Valerian!"

"Who is Valerian?" feebly interrogates the invalid. Once more the name
of a man is making him unhappy.

"Don Valerian!" responds the doctor, in a tone that tells of respect for
the individual so designated; "you shall see, senor. You are about to
make his acquaintance. No; I am wrong about that. I forgot. You
cannot now."

"Cannot! Why?"

"Because you have made it already. _Mira_! He is there!"

This as a tall, elegant man, under thirty years of age, steps inside the
chamber, while a still taller form appears in the doorway, almost
filling up the space between the posts.

The latter is Walt Wilder, but the former--who is he? Don Valerian, of