levolent spirit. A portion of
his vengeance is yet unappeased--that due to him who was second in the
duel. And if it could be satisfied by the death of Miranda himself,
then there would still be the other thought to torture him--his thwarted
love scheme. The chagrin he suffers from this is stronger than his
thirst for vengeance.

He is seated in the sala of Miranda's house, which he occupies as his
official headquarters. He is alone, his only companion being the bottle
that stands upon a table beside him--this and a cigar burning between
his lips. It is not wine he is drinking, but the whisky of Tequila,
distilled from the wild maguey. Wine is too weak to calm his perturbed
spirit, as he sits surveying the portrait upon the wall.

His eyes have been on it several times; each time, as he takes them off,
drinking a fresh glass of the mezcal and igniting another cigar. What
signifies all his success in villainy? What is life worth without her?
He would plunder a church to obtain possession of her--murder his
dearest friend to get from Adela Miranda one approving smile.

Such are his coarse thoughts as he sits soliloquising, shaping
conjectures about the banished commandant and his sister.

Where can they have gone to? In all probability to the United States--
that asylum of rebels and refugees. In the territory of New Mexico they
cannot have stayed. His spies have searched every nook and corner of
it, their zeal secured by the promise of large rewards. He has
dispatched secret emissaries to the Rio Abajo, and on to the _Provincias
Internas_. But no word of Miranda anywhere--no trace can be found
either of him or his sister. "_Chingara_!"

As if this exclamatory phrase, sent hissing through his teeth--too foul
to bear translation--were the name of a man, one at this moment appears
in the doorway, who, after a gesture of permission to enter, steps
inside the room.

He is an officer in full uniform--one whom we have met before, though
not in military costume. It is Lieutenant Roblez, Uraga's adjutant, as
also his confederate in crime.

"I'm glad you've come, _ayudante_," says the Colonel, motioning the
new-comer to a seat. "I'm feeling a little bit lonely, and I want some
one to cheer me. You, Roblez, are just the man for that; you've got
such a faculty for conversation."

This is ironical; for Roblez is as silent as an owl.

"Sit down and give me your cheerful company," the Colonel adds. "Have a