evan! I do not think I shall ever
be able to console myself."

His future, nevertheless, might not have been obscured by perpetual
grief, for the regret he expressed was far from being in harmony with
his most secret thoughts. While he acknowledged the many obligations he
owed to Don Estevan, he could not help remembering that had he lived, he
would have been compelled to spend in political intrigues the half of
his wife's marriage portion; half a million of money he must thus have
thrown to the dogs. It is true, he said to himself, I shall neither be
a count, marquis, or duke of any kind, but to my thinking, half a
million of money is worth more than a title, and will multiply my
pleasures considerably. This fatal event will besides hasten the period
of my marriage. Perhaps after all Don Estevan's death is not a
misfortune. "Poor Don Estevan," he continued aloud, "what an unexpected
blow!"

Tragaduros had yet to learn that it might have been better for him had
Don Estevan lived. We will leave him with the haciendado, and follow
Gayferos--for perhaps the reader will be glad to hear from him again.

The adventurer had saddled his horse, and unseen by anybody had crossed
the plain and again taken the road which led to the Presidio of Tubac.

The route which he followed for some time brought him in contact with
few travellers, and when by chance some horseman appeared in the
distance, Gayferos, as he passed him, exchanged an impatient salutation,
but failed to recognise the one he sought.

The day was drawing towards a close, and it was at a late hour when
Gayferos uttered a joyful exclamation on seeing three travellers
advancing at a gallop.

These travellers were no others than the Canadian, Pepe, and Fabian de
Mediana. The giant was mounted upon a strong mule, larger and more
vigorous than the Mexican horses. Nevertheless this animal was somewhat
out of proportion with the gigantic stature of the rider.

Fabian and Pepe rode two excellent coursers, which they had taken from
the Indians.

The young man was greatly changed since the day when he arrived for the
first time at the Hacienda del Venado.

Painful and indelible recollections had left their traces upon his pale
and wasted cheeks, a few wrinkles furrowed his brow, though the
brilliancy of his eye was heightened by the sorrowful reflection of the
passion which consumed him. But perhaps in the eyes of a woman his pale
and sickly appearance might