of the Indian servants, made her as
comfortable as possible. I had been without sleep so long that I had
gone into the parlor and laid down. I had just awakened from a sleep
when Don Julian entered. Poor old man, he was overcome with grief. He
knew all, Felicita had told him. From him I learned how the abduction
had taken place. About 11 o'clock at night, Don Rodrigo had entered
the bedroom and before she realized what was being done, Felicita had
been carried to the carriage in waiting. Leaving her in charge of the
driver, Don Rodrigo returned for her clothes. No sooner was his back
turned than she screamed. This attracted the attention of Chico, who
had been enjoying a visit with Don Julian's Indian servants in the
kitchen. He had run at full speed to inform me.

It was the opinion of Don Julian that Don Rodrigo had intended taking
the child to some remote Indian habitation in the mountains, and
demanding a ransom for her.

This was a plausible theory, for besides getting revenge for Felicita
refusing his hand in marriage, he would be able to extort money from
Don Julian, and also avenge his fancied wrongs at my hands.

The following day Felicita was still weak and nervous. The doctor
advised that she be taken to the sea coast for a time. She protested,
saying she was getting stronger, but I knew she was only saying it to
cheer her father and myself. I could plainly see her condition was
precarious. After a long consultation with the doctors, Don Julian
decided he would take her to Truxillo, their former home. After
considerable pleading, she consented to go. I was to follow when she
recovered.

I accompanied them and their Indian servants aboard the steamer and
remained aboard the little ferry boat, waving my handkerchief until
they faded into the distance. I returned ashore, and although I had
not been in Mollendo for some time, I had no desire to see my friends.
I wanted to be alone.

Weeks of dreary waiting followed. I was not myself. Anxiously I looked
for a letter and with trembling hands I broke the seal. The letter was
dated Lima, and read: "Don Juan, I am crazy. Felicita is dead. Will
write you all, when I am composed. Julian."

Never was human being more distracted than I. Absenting myself from
everybody night after night in deep ravines and valleys, among the
lofty mountains that surrounded Arequipa, I wandered. Many an Indian
no doubt looked upon me with superstitious awe, walking without caring
w