it will
not be by the hands of the _garrotero_. No, my hands are free. They
shall not be bound again while life remains. I shall yield only to
death itself."

As the captive muttered these thoughts he sat down upon the banqueta,
and hurriedly untied the thongs that up to this time had remained upon
his ankles. This done, he rose to his feet again; and, with the long
knife firmly clutched, strode up and down the cell, glancing fiercely
towards the door at each turning. He had resolved to run the gauntlet
of his guards, and by his manner it was evident he had made up his mind
to attack the first of them that entered.

For several minutes he paced his cell, like a tiger within its cage.

At length a thought seemed to suggest itself that caused a change in his
manner, sudden and decided. He gathered up the thongs just cast off;
and seating himself upon the banqueta, once more wound them around his
ankles--but this time in such a fashion, that a single jerk upon a
cunningly-contrived knot would set all free. The knife was hidden under
his hunting-shirt, where the purse had been already deposited. Last of
all, he unloosed the raw-hide rope from the beam, and, meeting his hands
behind him, whipped it around both wrists, until they had the appearance
of being securely spliced. He then assumed a reclining attitude along
the banqueta, with his face turned towards the door, and remained
motionless as though he were asleep!

CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.

In our land of cold impulses--of love calculating and interested--we
cannot understand, and scarcely credit, the deeds of reckless daring
that in other climes have their origin in that strong passion.

Among Spanish women love often attains a strength and sublimity utterly
unfelt and unknown to nations who mix it up with their merchandise.
With those highly-developed dames it often becomes a true passion--
unselfish, headlong, intense--usurping the place of every other, and
filling the measure of the soul. Filial affection--domestic ties--moral
and social duty--must yield. Love triumphs over all.

Of such a nature--of such intensity--was the love that burned in the
heart of Catalina de Cruces.

Filial affection had been weighed against it; rank, fortune, and many
other considerations, had been thrown into the scale. Love out-balanced
them all; and, obedient to its impulse, she had resolved to fling all
the rest behind her.

It was nearing the hour of midnight, and