cerning
her; nor was he able, either by threats or entreaties, to obtain any
information with respect to Rita. Several of the nuns knew that she and
her attendant had occupied apartments contiguous to those of the abbess;
but they had none of them been admitted to see her, and knew nothing of
her fate. A rapid search instituted by Herrera and Torres was entirely
fruitless. Already two messengers had been sent by the Mochuelo to
hasten their movements, and at last Torres succeeded in dragging his
friend away. The guerillas had already marched with the exception of a
small party who still waited at the foot of the slope, and now hurried
after the main body.

Whilst traversing in silence and darkness the mountain in rear of the
convent, Herrera was at length able to collect his bewildered thoughts,
and with comparative calmness to pass in review the events of the
evening, and the unsatisfactory results of his ill-fated expedition.
Long used to disappointment, and aware of the difficulties environing
his project, he had approached the convent in no sanguine mood; but
still hopes he had, which were now blighted, and never, he feared, would
be realized. What had become of Rita, and how could he obtain tidings of
her? Had she already been removed from the convent by Baltasar? But why,
then, had he returned thither? His death, at least, was some
consolation. Wherever Rita might be, she no longer had his persecution
to dread. Against Herrera's will, and although he spurned the thought
and blamed himself for entertaining it, even for a moment, the ominous
words, the last the abbess had spoken, still rang in his ears, like the
judge's sentence in those of a condemned criminal. False, vile,
faithless! Could it be? Could Rita, by importunity, intimidation, or
from any other motive, have been induced to listen otherwise than with
abhorrence to Baltasar's odious addresses? Herrera could not, would not,
think so; and yet how was he to interpret the words of the abbess? Were
they the mere ravings of delirium, or had they signification? If Rita
was false, then indeed was there no truth upon earth. Confused,
bewildered, tortured by the ideas that crowded upon his heated brain,
Herrera sat like an automaton upon his horse, unmindful of where he was,
and utterly forgetting the dangers that surrounded him. He was roused by
the Mochuelo from his state of abstraction.

"We shall not reach Pampeluna without a skirmish," said the partisan, in