ot say this aloud, nor to her brother. It is a thought,
silent within the secret recesses of her own heart.

"If you wish," continues the colonel, "I will see him, and again try to
turn him from this reckless course; though I know there is little hope.
Stay! a thought strikes me, sister. Suppose you speak to him. A
woman's words are more likely to be listened to; and I know that yours
will have great weight with him. He looks upon you as the saviour of
his life, and may yield to your request."

"If you think so, Valerian--"

"I do. I see him coming this way. Remain where you are. I shall send
him in to you."

With a heart heaving and surging, Hamersley stands in the presence of
her, the sole cause of its tumultuous excitement. For he has been
summoned thither in a manner that somewhat surprises him. "Don
Francisco, my sister wishes a word with you," is the speech of Colonel
Miranda, an invitation promptly responded to.

What is to be the import of his interview, unexpected, unsought,
apparently commanded?

He asks himself this question as he proceeds towards the place where she
stands waiting to receive him. Coming up to her, he says,--

"Senorita, your brother has told me you wish to speak with me?"

"I do," she replies, without quail in her look or quiver in her voice.

In returning her glance Hamersley feels as if his case is hopeless.
That very day he had thought of proposing to her. It almost passes from
his mind. So cool, she cannot care for him. He remains silent, leaving
her to proceed.

"Senor, it is about your going to the Rio del Norte. My brother tells
me such is your intention. We wish you not to go, Don Francisco. There
is danger in your doing it."

"It is my duty."

"In what respect? Explain yourself!"

"My brave comrades have been slain--assassinated. I have reason to
believe that in the town of Albuquerque I may discover their assassins--
at all events their chief, and perhaps bring him to justice. I intend
trying, if it costs me my life."

"Do you reflect what your life is worth?"

"To me not much."

"It may be to others. You have at home a mother, brothers, and sisters.
Perhaps one dearer?"

"No--not at home."

"Elsewhere, then?"

He is silent under this searching inquisition.

"Do you think that danger to your life would be unhappiness to her's--
your death her life's misery?"

"My dishonour should be more, as it would to myself. It is not
vengeance I