of the secret.

All at once it occurred to him that the expedition to which he found
himself thus accidentally attached could have no other object than this
very placer of the Golden Valley. Most likely the very man who shared
the secret with him--the murderer of Marcos Arellanos--was among the men
enrolled under the orders of the chief Don Estevan. The ambiguous
questioning of Cuchillo, his comprehension of events, the stumbling of
his horse, with other slighter indications, appeared to throw some light
upon the obscurity of Tiburcio's conjectures; but not enough. How was
he (Tiburcio) to arrive at a complete understanding?

A still more painful uncertainty pressed upon his spirit, as they
approached the dwelling of Don Augustin. What reception would he meet
with from Dona Rosarita? he, a poor gambusino--without resources,
without family--poorly dressed even--a mere follower, confounded with
the common mob of adventurers who composed the expedition? Sad
presentiments were passing in his mind, as the cavalcade of which he
formed so humble an appendage arrived at the palisade enclosure of the
hacienda.

The gates were soon open to receive them; and the moment after Don
Augustin himself welcomed the travellers at the front entrance of the
mansion. With that ease and elegance, almost peculiar to Spanish
manners, he received Don Estevan and the Senator, while the cordiality
with which he welcomed Tiburcio appeared to the young man a happy omen.

The travellers all dismounted. Cuchillo remained outside--partly out of
respect to his chief and partly to look after his horse. As to
Tiburcio, he had not the same motives for acting thus, and therefore
entered along with Don Estevan and Tragaduros, his face pale and his
heart beating audibly.

The room into which they had been shown was the grand sala already
described, and in which certain preparations had been made for a
magnificent banquet. But Tiburcio saw nothing of all this. His eyes
beheld only one object--for there stood a beautiful girl whose lips
rendered paler the carnation red of the granadillas, and the hue of
whose cheeks eclipsed the rosy tint of the _sandias_, scattered
profusely over the tables. It was Rosarita herself. A silken scarf
covered her head, permitting the thick plaits of her dark hair to shine
through its translucent texture, and just encircling the outline of her
oval face. This scarf, hanging down below the waist, but half conceale