ese were my reflections. My impulse was to drive the spurs into the
sides of my horse, and gallop back upon the ground. I might have done
so had the scene lasted much longer; but I saw the lady suddenly leave
the spot, and walk rapidly in the direction of the hacienda.

I wheeled round again, and plunging under the shadows of the forest,
soon fell into a road leading to the rancheria. With my thoughts full
of the incident that had just transpired, I rode unconsciously, leaving
my horse to his own guidance.

My reverie was interrupted by the challenge of one of my own sentries,
which admonished me that I had arrived at the entrance of the village.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

AN ORDER TO FORAGE.

My adventure did not end with the day; it was continued into the night,
and repeated in my dreams. I rode the chase over again; I dashed
through the magueys, I leaped the _zequia_, and galloped through the
affrighted herd; I beheld the spotted mustang stretched lifeless upon
the plain, its rider bending and weeping over it. That face of rare
beauty, that form of exquisite proportion, that eye rotund and noble,
that tongue so free, and heart so bold--all were again encountered in
dreamland. A dark face was in the vision, and at intervals crossed the
picture like a cloud. It was the face of Ijurra.

I think it was that awoke me, but the _reveille_ of the bugle was
ringing in my ears as I leaped from my couch.

For some moments I was under the impression that the adventure had been
a dream: an object that hung on the opposite wall came under my eyes,
and recalled the reality--it was my saddle, over the holsters of which
lay a coil of white horsehair rope, with a silver ring at the end. I
remembered the lazo.

When fairly awake, I reviewed my yesterday's adventure from first to
last. I tried to think calmly upon it; I tried to get it out of my
thoughts, and return seriously to my duties. A vain attempt! The more
I reflected upon the incident, the more I became conscious of the
powerful interest its heroine had excited within me. Interest, indeed!
Say rather _passion_--a passion that in one single hour had grown as
large as my heart!

It was not _the first_ love of my life. I was nigh thirty years of age.
I had been enamoured before--more than once, it may be--and I
understood what the feeling was. I needed no Cupid to tell me I was in
love again--to the very ends of my fingers.

To paint the object of my passion is