the
exiles have found temporary asylum; the direction, distance, and means
of access to it--in short, its complete topography.

With all the Indian is familiar, can correctly describe it, and does so.
In that imposing presence he dare not attempt deception, even if
inclined. But he is not. Between questioner and questioned the aim and
end are similar, if not the same. Besides, the peon's blood has again
been warmed up, and his tongue set loose, by a fresh infusion of
aguardiente--so that his confessions are full as free. He tells about
the life led by the Mexican refugees, as also their American guests--all
he knows, and this is nearly everything. For trusted, unsuspected, he
has had every opportunity to learn. The only thing concealed by him is
his own love affair with Conchita and its disastrous ending, through the
intrusion of the Texan Ranger.

This, if told, would give his listener slight concern, alongside the
grave impressions made upon him by another affair; some particulars of
which the peon communicates. These points refer to tender relations
existing between the young prairie trader and Adela Miranda, almost
proving their existence. Confirmed or not, on hearing of them Gil Uraga
receives a shock which sends the blood rushing in quick current through
his veins; while upon his countenance comes an expression of such bitter
malignity, that the traitor, in fear for his own safety, repents having
told him.

But Uraga has no spite against him--no motive for having it. On the
contrary, he intends rewarding him, after he gets out of him certain
other services for which he is to be retained.

When his cross-questioning is at length brought to a close, he is once
more committed to the charge of the guard-corporal, with orders to be
returned to the prison. At the same time a hint is given him that his
incarceration is only precautionary, with a promise it will not be for
long.

Immediately after his removal, Uraga seats himself before an escritoire,
which stands on one side of the room. Laying open the lid, he spreads a
sheet of paper upon it, and commences to write what appears an epistle.

Whatever it is, the composition occupies some considerable time.
Occasionally he stops using the pen, as though pondering what to put
down.

When it is at length completed, apparently to his satisfaction, he folds
the sheet, thrusts a stick of wax into the flame of a candle, and seals
the document, but without u