cquires a habit of watching and caring for others; he cannot help
assuming a charge which falls in his way. When he is not governed by the
rule of obedience, he is governed by the rule of responsibility. The two
make up his duty, and to do his duty is his existence.

At this moment our young West Pointer, only twenty-three or four years
old, was gravely and grimly anxious for his four soldiers, for all these
people whom circumstance had placed under his protection, and even for his
army mules, provisions, and ammunition. His only other sentiment was a
passionate desire to prevent harm or even fear from approaching Clara Van
Diemen. These two sentiments might be said to make up for the present his
entire character. As we have already observed, he had not a thought for
himself.

Presently it occurred to the youngster that he ought to cheer on his
fellow-travellers.

Trotting up with a smile to Mrs. Stanley and Clara, he asked, "How do you
bear it?"

"Oh, I am almost dead," groaned Aunt Maria. "I shall have to be tied on
before long."

The poor woman, no longer youthful, it must be remembered, was indeed
badly jaded. Her face was haggard; her general get-up was in something
like scarecrow disorder; she didn't even care how she looked. So fagged
was she that she had once or twice dozed in the saddle and come near
falling.

"It was outrageous to bring us here," she went on pettishly. "Ladies
shouldn't be dragged into such hardships."

Thurstane wanted to say that he was not responsible for the journey; but
he would not, because it did not seem manly to shift all the blame upon
Coronado.

"I am very, very sorry," was his reply. "It is a frightful journey."

"Oh, frightful, frightful!" sighed Aunt Maria, twisting her aching back.

"But it will soon be over," added the officer. "Only twenty miles more to
the river."

"The river! It seems to me that I could live if I could see a river. Oh,
this desert! These perpetual rocks! Not a green thing to cool one's eyes.
Not a drop of water. I seem to be drying up, like a worm in the sunshine."

"Is there no water in the flasks?" asked Thurstane.

"Yes," said Clara. "But my aunt is feverish with fatigue."

"What I want is the sight of it--and rest," almost whimpered the elder
lady.

"Will our horses last?" asked Clara. "Mine seems to suffer a great deal."

"They _must_ last," replied Thurstane, grinding his teeth quite privately.
"Oh, yes, they will last," he immediat