ling it.

But from the tenour of his last speech, Don Valerian knows that Uraga
has gone thither, as also his object.

Chagrined by the denial he has received from the brother, roused to
recklessness, he resolves on having an answer from the sister,
point-blank, upon the instant.

With slight ceremony he enters her tent. Once inside, he mutters a
request, more like a command, for Conchita to withdraw. He does this
with as much grace as the excited state of his feelings permits,
excusing himself on the plea that he wishes a word with the senorita--
one he is sure she would not wish to be heard by other ears than her
own.

Aroused from a despondent attitude, the young lady looks up, her large
round eyes expressing surprise, anger, apprehension, awe. The mestiza
glances towards her mistress for instructions. The latter hesitates to
give them. Only for an instant. It can serve no purpose to gainsay the
wishes of one who has full power to enforce them, and whose demeanour
shows him determined on doing so.

"You can go, Conchita," says her mistress; "I will call you when you are
wanted."

The girl moves off with evident reluctance, but stops not far from the
tent.

"Now, Don Gil Uraga," demands the lady, on being left alone with the
intruder, "what have you to say to me that should not be overheard?"

"Come, senorita! I pray you will not commence so brusquely. I approach
you as a friend, though for some time I may have appeared in the
character of an enemy. I hope, however, you'll give me credit for good
intentions. I'm sure you will when you know how much I'm distressed by
the position I'm placed in. It grieves me that my instructions compel
such harsh measures towards my two prisoners: but, in truth, I can say
no discretion has been left me. I act under an order from
headquarters."

"Senor," she rejoins, casting upon him a look of scornful incredulity,
"you have said all this before. I suppose you had something else to
speak of."

"And so I have, senorita. Something of a nature so unpleasant I
hesitate to tell it, fearing it may sadly shock you."

"You need not. After what has passed I am not likely to be nervous."

Despite her natural courage, and an effort to appear calm, she trembles,
as also her voice. There is an expression on the face of the man that
bodes sinister risings--some terrible disclosure.

The suspense is too painful to be borne; and in a tone more firm and
defiant she dema