Death_--_welcome death_!

"_Fear not, Henri, lord of my heart! fear not that I shall dishonour
your love. No_--_sacred in my breast, its purity shall be preserved,
even at the sacrifice of my life. I shall bathe it with my blood. Ah
me! my heart is bleeding now! They come to drag me away. Farewell!
farewell_!"

Such were the contents of the page--the fly-leaf of a torn missal. Upon
the other side was a vignette--a picture of Dolores, the weeping saint
of Mexico! Had it been chosen, the emblem could scarcely have been more
appropriate.

I thrust the red writing into my bosom; and, without waiting to exchange
a word with my companions, pressed forward upon the trail.

CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE.

MORE WRITING IN RED.

The men followed as before. We needed no trackers to point out the way;
the path was plain as a drover's road--a thousand hoofs had made their
mark upon the ground.

We rode at a regular pace, not rapidly. I was in no hurry to come up
with the savages; I desired to get sight of them just after nightfall,
not before, lest they might also get sight of us.

The plan I proposed to myself for the rescue of my betrothed, could not
be accomplished in the daytime; darkness alone could avail me in
carrying it out, and for nightfall must I wait.

We could easily have overtaken the Indians before night. They were but
two short hours in the advance of us, and would be certain--as is their
custom on the war-trail--to make a noon-halt of several hours' duration.
Even Indian horses require to be rested.

We calculated the rate at which they were travelling--how many miles to
the hour. The prairie-men could tell to a furlong, both the gait and
the distance.

The tracks of the poor captives were still seen along the trail. This
showed that the party could not have been going faster than a walk.

The prairie-men alleged there were many horses without riders--led or
driven; many mules, too--the product of the foray. Why were the poor
captives not permitted to ride them?

Was it sheer cruelty, or brutal indifference on the part of their
captors? Did the inhuman monsters gloat over the sufferings of these
unfortunates, and deny them even the alleviation of physical pain? The
affirmative answer to all these questions was probably the true one,
since hardly better--no better, indeed--is the behaviour of these
savages towards the women of their own blood and kind--their own squaws.

Talk not to me of