of
the town, who can it be but one in pursuit of them? And if a pursuer,
what other than Aguara?

Still Nacena is in doubt, and deems it strange. As they stole away from
Shebotha's hut, and through the straggling suburb of the _tolderia_, all
was darkness and silence, everybody seeming asleep. Who or what could
have awakened the _cacique_, and apprised him of the flight of his
captive?

In asking herself these questions, Kaolin's sister is under the belief,
that the sorceress is herself still a prisoner, in the keeping of that
stalwart and redoubtable gaucho. Hence her surprise at their being
pursued, with the uncertainty that they are so, and the further doubt of
the pursuer being Aguara.

He it is, notwithstanding; and as yet pursuing alone. For although soon
can be heard the hoof-strokes of other horses than his also following,
these are faint and far-off. He himself hears them; knows it is a party
of his young braves pressing on after, but will not wait for them to
come up. For he hopes to overtake the fugitives, ere they can reach the
place of rendezvous Shebotha has spoken of, and recover his captive
before she can fling herself into the arms of protecting friends.

In this hope, alas! he is not disappointed. Dashing on through the
darkness along a road with every foot of which both he and his horse are
familiar, he first comes up with the half-witted creature lagging
behind, soon as beside him putting the question--

"Where is the paleface, your prisoner?"

The man, frightened at seeing it is the _cacique_, in his confusion
hesitates to make reply. But Aguara does not wait for it. He hears
voices ahead--soft and sweet, though raised in tones of alarm--and knows
she must be there. Giving his horse's head a wrench, so as to shave
close past the delinquent jailer, he raises his _macana_, and dealing a
downward blow, strikes the latter to the earth: then hastens on after
the others.

Nacena now knows for certain that they are pursued, as also who is the
pursuer. She has heard the question asked by Aguara, recognising his
voice; heard also the dull thud of his club as it descended on the skull
of the unfortunate man; and now again hears the trampling of hoofs
renewed and drawing nearer. She has still hold of Francesca's hand, and
for a moment debates within herself what is best to be done, and whether
she should not release it, and turning show front to the pursuer.

Too late for that, or aught