t, Uncle. Lilla has had a terrible
shock," I exclaimed hastily. "A hideous serpent--terrible conflict--"

I stopped short, for there was a sneering grin of disbelief on Garcia's
countenance, which made me want to dash my fist in his face, as he said:

"Very terrible conflict--a very dragon attacking the maiden, and this
new Saint George of England coming to her rescue. I don't see any blood
about."

"I should like to make some come from his nose," muttered Tom.

"What has happened?" said my uncle frowning; for he did not seem to like
Garcia's allusion.

Lilla spoke in faint trembling tones:

"I was resting after gathering those flowers, when a rustling overhead
took my attention, and--ah!--"

She shuddered, turned pale, and covered her face with her hands, quite
unable to proceed; when my uncle turned to me, and I explained what I
had seen, in proof of which I turned to the beaten-down foliage, upon
which lay thickly, in spite of Garcia's words, fast-drying spots and
gouts of blood, which we traced right down to the river's bank, in a
dense bed of reeds, where they ceased, and it was not thought advisable
to search farther.

"Let us get back, my child," said my uncle tenderly to Lilla. "You must
come alone into the woods no more."

There was a troubled and meaning tone in my uncle's words, and more than
once I caught his eye directed at me. But directly after he moved off
towards the hacienda, closely followed by Garcia, while I hung back
undecided how to act; for I was suffering from a troubled conscience, as
I thought of the promise I had so lately given.

My reverie was interrupted by Tom, who had been standing unnoticed.

"Did you see Muster Garshar, Mas'r Harry," said Tom; "how he showed you
the whole of his teeth, just like a mad dog going to bite?"

"No, Tom; I did not take particular notice of him," I said.

"Well, I did, Mas'r Harry," said Tom; "and if you take my advice you'll
look out; for they're a rum lot here, as you know. They don't hit with
the fist, only when that there fist has got an ugly-looking knife in it,
sharp as a razor; and when they hit a poor fellow with it, and he dies
afterwards, they don't call it murder--they call it fighting--a set of
uncultivated, ignorant savages! I only wish I had the teaching of them!
But look here, Mas'r Harry, you'll take care, won't you?"

"Why, Tom?" I said dreamily.

"Why, Mas'r Harry? Why? because Muster Garshar don't like you--not a