cing among the green leaves.

Apprehensive of losing him, I rode recklessly after, now breasting the
thicket--now tracing its labyrinthine aisles. I heeded not the thorny
mimosas; my horse heeded them not; but large trees of the false acacia
(_robinia_) stood thickly in the way, and their horizontal branches
hindered me. Often was I obliged to bend flat to the saddle, in order
to pass under them. All this was in favour of the pursued, and against
the pursuer.

I longed for the open prairie, and to my relief it at length appeared,
not yet quite treeless, but studded with timber "islands." Amid these
the white steed was sailing off; but in passing through the thicket, he
had gained ground, and was now a long way in advance of me. But he was
making for the open plain that lay beyond, and this showed that it was
his habit to trust to his heels for safety. Perhaps with such a
pursuer, he would have been safer to have kept the chapparal; but that
remained to be seen.

In ten minutes' time, we had passed through the timber islands, and now
the prairie--the grand, limitless prairie--stretched bee us, far beyond
the reach of vision.

On goes the chase over its grassy level--on till the trees are no longer
behind us, and the eye sees nought but the green savannah, and the blue
canopy arching over it--on, across the centre of that vast circle which
has for its boundary the whole horizon!

The rangers, lost in the mazes of the chapparal, have long since fallen
off; the mustangs have gone back; on all that wide plain, but two
objects appear--the snow-white form of the flying steed, and the dark
horseman that follows!

It is a long wild ride, a cruel gallop for my matchless Moro. Ten miles
of the prairie have we passed--more than that--and as yet I have neither
used whip nor spur. The brave steed needs no such prompting; he, too,
has his interest in the chase--the ambition not to be outrun. My motive
is different: I think only of the smiles of a woman; but such motive ere
now has led to the loss of a crown or the conquest of a world. On,
Moro! on! you must overtake him or die!

There is no longer an obstacle. He cannot hide from us here. The
plain, with its sward of short grass, is level and smooth as the
sleeping ocean; not an object intrudes upon the sight. He cannot
conceal himself anywhere. There is still an hour of sunlight; he cannot
hide from us in the darkness: ere that comes down, he shall be our
capti