allow this
brave cavalier to perish? he who overcomes that which has rooted up the
trees of the forest?"

"Oh!" cried Gertrudis, recovering her strength, and speaking in a burst
of passionate pride; "it is Don Rafael, I am sure! No other could
perform such a deed!"

Her heart suddenly sank again, as she observed that her sister once more
spoke in a tone of anguish.

"Alas, alas!" cried Marianita, "an enormous tree is drifting towards
them! Oh! it will strike the horse! they will be overwhelmed by it."

"Angel, whose name he bears!" shrieked Gertrudis, "angel, protect him!
Virgin Mary, appease the rage of the waters, and shield him from
destruction! Holy Virgin, save him, _and I vow to sacrifice my hair for
his life_!"

This was the most precious offering the young Creole could think of
making to the Virgin, and as if the vow had been accepted, the voice of
Marianita was at that moment heard in a more cheerful tone.

"Blessed be God!" exclaimed she, "they will yet be saved! A dozen
lazoes are around the tree. They have been thrown by people from the
house. Good! the trunk no longer rolls onward. It is checked and held
by the ropes. The brave horseman might easily mount upon it. But no!
he will not abandon his noble horse, nor the man he is holding in his
arms. See, he is riding around the tree, his brave steed plunging
through the water with all his strength. Once more he is breasting the
flood--on--on--ah! hear those shouts of triumph! He is up to the walls!
he is saved!"

A loud triumphant cheer rising from below, and blending with a similar
cry that pealed along the roof of the hacienda, confirmed the words of
Marianita; and the two sisters rushing together became locked in a
mutual embrace.

"Ah, Gertrudis!" said Marianita, after a moment, "you have vowed your
hair to the Virgin? your beautiful hair, worth a kingdom!"

"Yes," responded Gertrudis, "and, were it worth a world, I should have
given it all the same for the life of my noble Don Rafael. Ah! yes; and
he shall cut it from my head with his own hands!"

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE LAST OF THE ZAPOTEQUES.

At no great distance from the cascade already introduced to the reader,
there rises a little hill, with a flat or table-shaped top, as if it had
once been a cone, whose apex had been cut off by some freak of nature.
As already observed, such eminences are not uncommon throughout the
plains of America, where they are generally termed