t," said the haciendado, who like all dwellers upon the
frontiers exposed to Indian incursions, nourished in his heart a hatred
for the savages almost equal to that of Diaz himself. "I approve of
your sentiments, Don Pedro Diaz; and if you will permit me to offer you
a gage of mine, I beg you will accept from me the present of a horse I
have--one that will carry you to your satisfaction. I promise you that
the Indian you pursue, while on his back, will require to go as fast as
the wind itself, if you do not overtake him."

"He shall be my war-horse," exclaimed Diaz, his eyes sparkling with
pleasure at the gift. "I shall ornament his crest with Indian scalps,
in honour of him who gave him to me."

"I cannot divine what has delayed Don Estevan," said the haciendado,
changing the subject of conversation. "He should have been here three
hours before this, that is, if he passed the night at La Poza."

Don Augustin had scarce finished his speech when a sudden and graceful
apparition glided into the saloon. It was his daughter, the beautiful
Rosarita.

As if the expected cavalcade only awaited her presence, the clattering
of hoofs at the same instant was heard outside; and by the light of the
torches which the domestics had carried out, Don Estevan and his suite
could be seen riding up to the entrance of the hacienda.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

ROSARITA.

On the route from La Poza it had fallen to the lot of Cuchillo and
Tiburcio to ride side by side, but for all this few words had passed
between them. Although Cuchillo had not the slightest idea of
renouncing his dire design, he continued to hide his thoughts under an
air of good-humour--which when need be he knew how to assume. He had
made several attempts to read the thoughts of the young gambusino, but
the latter was on his guard, seeking in his turn to identify Cuchillo
with the assassin of his father. No opportunity offered, however; and
in this game of mutual espionage, neither had the advantage.
Nevertheless, an instinctive and mutual hatred became established
between the two, and before the day's journey was over, each regarded
the other as a mortal foe. Cuchillo was more than ever determined to
execute his hellish purpose--since a crime less or more would be nothing
to him--while Tiburcio, keenly remembering the oath which he had made to
his adopted mother, was resolved on keeping it, and only awaited the
time when he should be sure of the assassin. We