earer to the house. He heard a noise of voices within. An
equipage drove up rapidly to the front. What could bring a carriage to
the house of Luis Fernandez?

A wild idea sprang into Ramon's brain. He had been so long in solitude
that he drew conclusions rapidly. So he followed the train of thought
upon which he had fallen, even as the flame runs along a train of
gunpowder laid on the floor.

They had been long persuading her--all these months he had been on the
mountain, and now they had married her to his false friend, to Luis
Fernandez. It was the eve of the wedding-feast, and the guests were
arriving. His knife had deceived him a second time. He had not struck
true. Where was his old skill? There--surely his eyesight did not
deceive him--was Luis Fernandez walking to and fro within his own house,
arm in arm with a friend. They had lied to Dolores and told her he was
dead, even as the Migueletes would certainly do to claim the reward.
There upon the balcony was a stranger dressed in black; he and Luis came
to an open window, leaned out, and talked confidentially together. The
stranger was peeling an orange, and he flung the peel almost upon the
head of El Sarria.

Ramon, fingering his pistol butt, wondered if he should shoot now or
wait. The two men went in again, and solved the difficulty for that
time. Moreover, the outlaw did not yet know for certain that his wife
was within the mill-house.

He would reconnoitre and find out. So he hid his gun carefully in a dry
place under a stone, and stole up to the house through the garden,
finding his way by instinct, for all the lighted windows were now on the
other side.

Yet El Sarria never halted, never stumbled, was never at a loss. Now he
stepped over the little stream which ran in an artificial channel to
reinforce the undershot wheel from above, when the Cerde was low.
Another pace forward and he turned sharply to the left, parted a tangle
of oleanders, and looked out upon the broad space in front of the house.

It was a doctor's carriage all the way from La Bisbal that stood there.
It was not a wedding then; some one was ill, very ill, or the
_Sangrador_ would not have come from so far, nor at such an expense to
Don Luis, who in all things was a careful man. Moreover, to Ramon's
simple Spanish mind the _Sangrador_ and the undertaker arrived in one
coach. Could he have struck some one else instead of Don Luis that night
at the chasm? Surely no!

And then a gr