eared the suburbs, and, striking into a byroad that traversed the
chapparal, arrived at a lone rancho, the same where Rosita had been
taken before--for it was Josefa who again carried her away.

The sufferers were taken inside the house. It was soon perceived that
one no longer suffered. The daughter was restored to consciousness,
only to see that that of her mother had for ever fled!

Her temples were chafed--her lips moistened--her hand pressed in vain.
The wild utterance of a daughter's grief fell unheard upon her ears.
Death had carried her spirit to another world.

CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

From the embrasure of his prison Carlos looked upon the terrible
spectacle. We have said that he regarded it in silence. Not exactly
so. Now and then, as the blood-stained lash fell heavier than usual, a
low groan escaped him--the involuntary utterance of agony extreme.

His looks more than his voice betrayed the fearful fire that was burning
within. Those who by chance or curiosity glanced into the embrasure
were appalled by the expression of that face. Its muscles were rigid
and swollen, the eyes were fixed and ringed with purple, the teeth
firmly set, the lips drawn tight over them, and large sweat-drops
glistened upon the forehead. No red showed upon the cheeks, nor any
part of the face--not a trace to tell that blood circulated there. Pale
as death was that face, and motionless as marble.

From his position Carlos could see but two angles of the Plaza--that
where the cruel scene had its commencement, and that where the second
portion was administered. The procession then passed out of sight; but
though his eyes were no longer tortured by the horrid spectacle, there
was but little relief in that. He knew it continued all the same.

He remained no longer by the window. A resolve carried him from it,--
the resolve of self-destruction!

His agony was complete. He could endure it no longer. Death would
relieve him, and upon death he was determined.

But how to die?

He had no weapon; and even if he had, pinioned as he was, he could not
have used it.

But one mode seemed possible--to dash his head against the wall!

A glance at the soft mason-work of _adobes_ convinced him that this
would not effect his purpose. By such an effort he might stun, but not
kill himself. He would wake again to horrid life.

His eyes swept the cell in search of some mode of self-destruction.

A beam traversed the apartmen