ess is travel-stained, bedraggled by dust and rain; her
hair, escaped from its coif, hangs dishevelled; her cheeks show the lily
where but roses have hitherto bloomed. She is sad, drooping,
despondent.

The Indian damsel seems to suffer less from her captivity, having less
to afflict her--no dread of that terrible calamity which, like an
incubus, broods upon the mind of her mistress.

In the conversation passing between them Conchita is the comforter.

"Don't grieve so, senorita," she says, "I'm sure it will be all right
yet. Something whispers me it will. It may be the good Virgin--bless
her! I heard one of the soldiers say they're taking us to Santa Fe, and
that Don Valerian will be tried by a court martial--I think that's what
he called it. Well, what of it? You know well he hasn't done anything
for which they can condemn him to death--unless they downright
assassinate him. They dare not do that, tyrants as they are."

At the words "assassinate him," the young lady gives a start. It is
just that which is making her so sad. Too well she knows the man into
whose hands they have unfortunately fallen. She remembers his design,
once nigh succeeding, only frustrated by that hurried flight from their
home. Is it likely the fiend will be contented to take her brother back
and trust to the decision of a legal tribunal, civil or military? She
cannot believe it; but shudders as she reflects upon what is before
them.

"Besides," pursues Conchita, in her consolatory strain, "your gallant
Francisco and my big, brave Gualtero have gone before us. They'll be in
Albuquerque when we get there, and will be sure to hear of our arrival.
Trust them for doing something to save Don Valerian."

"No, no," despondingly answers Adela, "they can do nothing for my
brother. That is beyond their power, even if he should ever reach
there. I fear he never will--perhaps, none of us."

"_Santissima_! What do you mean, senorita? Surely these men will not
murder us on the way?"

"They are capable of doing that--anything. Ah! Conchita, you do not
know them. I am in as much danger as my brother, for I shall choose
death rather than--"

She forbears speaking the word that would explain her terrible
apprehension. Without waiting for it, Conchita rejoins--

"If they kill you, they may do the same with me. Dear _duena_, I'm
ready to die with you."

The _duena_, deeply affected by this proffer of devotion, flings her
white ar