hich I have submitted you."

The father and son--for we may indeed call them so--now maintained a
long silence, listening only to the voices of nature. The sun
approached the horizon, a light breeze sprung up and rustled among the
leaves; already hopping from branch to branch, the birds resumed their
song, the insects swarmed in the grass, and the lowing of cattle was
heard in the distance. It was the denizens of the forest who welcomed
the return of evening.

The two sleepers awoke.

After a short and substantial repast, of which Gayferos had brought the
materials from the Hacienda del Venado, the four travellers awaited in
calm meditation the hour of their great trial.

Some time passed away before the azure sky above the open clearing was
overcast.

Gradually, however, the light of day diminished on the approach of
twilight, and then myriads of stars shone in the firmament, like sparks
sown by the sun as he quitted the horizon. At length, as on that
evening to which so many recollections belonged, when Fabian, wounded,
reached the wood-rangers by their fire, the moon illumined the summits
of the trees and the glades of the forest.

"Can we light a fire?" inquired Pepe.

"Certainly; for it may chance that we shall spend the night here,"
replied Bois-Rose. "Is not this your desire, Fabian?"

"It matters little to me," replied the young man; "here or yonder, are
we not always agreed?"

Fabian, as we have said, had long felt that the Canadian could not live,
even with him, in the heart of towns, without yearning for the liberty
and free air of the desert. He knew also that to live without him would
be still more impossible for his comrade; and he had generously offered
himself as a sacrifice to the affection of the old hunter.

Bois-Rose was aware of the full extent of the sacrifice, and the tear he
had that morning shed by stealth, was one of gratitude. We shall
by-and-by enter more fully into the Canadian's feelings.

The position of the stars indicated eleven o'clock.

"Go, my son," said Bois-Rose to Fabian. "When you have reached the spot
where you parted from the woman who perhaps loved you, put your hand
upon your heart. If you do not feel its pulses beat quicker, return,
for you will then have overcome the past."

"I shall return, then," replied Fabian, in a tone of melancholy
firmness: "memory is to me like the breath of the wind which passes by
without resting, and leaves no trace."

He