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g the huge blade, bent it down before me, so as to obtain a better view of its surface. I read:-- "_Captured by Comanches_--_a war-party with many captives_--_women and children_--_ay de mi! pobres ninas! north-west from this place. Saved from death; alas! I fear_--" The writing ended abruptly. There was no signature, but it needed not that. I had no doubts about who was the writer; in fact, rude as was the chirography--from the materials used--I easily identified the hand. It was Isolina de Vargas who had written. I saw that she had torn off the terminal spine, and using it as a stylus, had graven those characters upon the epidermis of the plant. Sweet subtle spirit! under any guise I could have recognised its outpourings. "Saved from death"--thank Heaven for that!--"alas! I fear." Oh, what feared she? Was it worse than death? that terrible fate--too terrible to think of? She had broken off, without finishing the sentence. Why had she done so? The sheet was broad--would have held many more words--why had she not written more? Did she dread to tell the cause of her fear? or had she been interrupted by the approach of some of her tyrant captors? O merciful Heaven! save me from thought! I re-read the words over and over: there was nothing more. I examined the other leaves of the plant--on both sides, concave and convex, I examined them--not a word more could I find. What I had read was all she had written. CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT. THE SOUTHERN SAVAGE. I need not tell how deeply I was affected by the unexpected communication. All at once were decided a variety of doubts; all at once was I made aware of the exact situation. Isolina still lived--that was no longer doubtful; and the knowledge produced joy. More than this: she was still uninjured--able to think, to act, to write--not only living, but well. The singular "billet" was proof of all this. Another point--her hands must have been free--her hands at least, else how could she have traced those lines? and with such a pencil? It argued indulgence--perhaps kind treatment on the part of her captors. Another point yet. _She knew I was in pursuit_. She _had_ seen me, then, as I galloped after. It _was_ her cry I had heard as the steed dashed into the chapparal. She had recognised, me, and called back. She knew I would still be following; she knew I was following, and for me was the writing meant. Sweet subtle spirit!
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