n to
the Presidio.

To Roblado the occurrences of the day had been rather pleasant than
otherwise; and a close observer of his conduct could have told this. If
there was anything in the whole business that really annoyed him, it was
the wound of the Comandante--it was exasperating! Roblado, more
experienced than the surgeon, knew this well. The friendship that
existed between the two was a fellow-feeling in wickedness--a sort of
felon's bond--durable enough so long as there was no benefit to either
in breaking it. But this friendship did not prevent Roblado from
regretting with all his heart that the bullet had not hit _his friend_ a
little higher up or a little lower down--either in the skull or the
throat! He entertained this regret from no malice or ill-will towards
the Comandante, but simply from a desire to benefit himself. It was
long since Roblado had been dreaming of promotion. He was not too
humble to hope he might one day command the Presidio himself.
Vizcarra's death would have given him that station at once; but Vizcarra
was not to die just then, and this knowledge somewhat clouded the joy he
was then experiencing.

And it was joy. Garcia and he had been enemies. There had been
jealousy and ill-will between them for long; therefore the lieutenant's
death was no source of regret to him. But the joy of Roblado owed
partly its origin to another consequence of that day's drama--one that
affected him more than any--one that was nearest his heart and his
hopes.

Absurd as appeared the pretensions of the cibolero in regard to
Catalina, Roblado had learned enough of late to make him jealous--ay,
even to give him real uneasiness. She was a strange creature, Catalina
de Cruces--one who had shown proofs of a rare spirit--one not to be
bought and sold like a _bulto_ of goods. She had taught both her father
and Roblado a lesson of late. She had taught them that. She had struck
the ground with her little foot, and threatened a convent--the grave--if
too rudely pressed! She had not rejected Roblado--that is, in word; but
she insisted on having _her own time to make answer_; and Don Ambrosio
was compelled to concede the point.

Under such circumstances her suitor felt uneasy. Not so much that he
was jealous--though he did love her after his own fashion, and was
piqued at the thought of such a rival--but he feared that spirit of
hers, and dreaded that her splendid fortune might yet escape him. Such
a w