rward, and stop
again in the same manner as before. This she repeated several times,
without uttering either word or exclamation.

Once she continued her walk all around the azotea, casting a
scrutinising look among the plants and flower-pots on both sides, as if
in search of something; but whatever it was, she was unsuccessful, as
nothing appeared to arrest her attention.

She returned once more, and took up the bandolon. But her fingers had
hardly touched the strings before she laid the instrument down again,
and rose from the bench, as if some sudden resolution had taken
possession of her.

"I never thought of that--I may have dropped it in the garden!" she
muttered to herself, as she glided toward a small escalera that led down
into the patio.

From this point an avenue communicated with the garden; and the next
moment she had passed through this and was tripping over the sanded
walks, bending from side to side, and peeping behind every plant and
bush that could have concealed the object of her search.

She explored every part of the enclosure, and lingered a moment in the
arbour among the china-trees--as if she enjoyed that spot more than any
other--but she came back at length with the same anxious expression,
that told she was not rewarded by the recovery of whatever she had lost.

The lady once more returned to the azotea--once more took up the
bandolon; but after a few touches of the strings, laid it down, and
again rose to her feet. Again she soliloquised.

"_Carrambo_! it is very strange!--neither in my chamber--the sala, the
cuarto, the azotea, the garden!--where can it be? O Dios! if it should
fall into the hands of papa! It is too intelligible--it could not fail
to be understood--no--no--no! O Dios! if it should reach other hands!--
those of _his_ enemies! It names to-night--true, it does not tell the
place, but the time is mentioned--the place would be easily discovered.
Oh! that I knew where to communicate with him! But I know not, and he
will come. _Ay de mi_! it cannot be prevented now. I must hope no
enemy has got it. But where can it be? Madre de Dios! where can it
be?"

All these phrases were uttered in a tone and emphasis that showed the
concern of the speaker at the loss of some object that greatly
interested her. That object was no other than the note brought by
Josefa, and written by Carlos the cibolero, in which the assignation for
that night had been appointed. No wonder