in the
brush near the trail. My heart leaped--I was on the track. I called
again; this time a faint reply, in accents I knew too well, came from
the field beside me!

Consuelo was there! reclining beside a manzanita bush which screened
her from the road, in what struck me, even at that supreme moment, as a
judicious and picturesquely selected couch of scented Indian grass and
dry tussocks. The velvet hat with its balls of scarlet plush was laid
carefully aside; her lovely blue-black hair retained its tight coils
undisheveled, her eyes were luminous and tender. Shocked as I was at her
apparent helplessness, I remember being impressed with the fact that it
gave so little indication of violent usage or disaster.

I threw myself frantically on the ground beside her.

"You are hurt, Consita! For Heaven's sake, what has happened?"

She pushed my hat back with her little hand, and tumbled my hair gently.

"Nothing. YOU are here, Pancho--eet is enofe! What shall come after
thees--when I am perhaps gone among the grave--make nothing! YOU are
here--I am happy. For a little, perhaps--not mooch."

"But," I went on desperately, "was it an accident? Were you thrown? Was
it Chu Chu?"--for somehow, in spite of her languid posture and voice, I
could not, even in my fears, believe her seriously hurt.

"Beat not the poor beast, Pancho. It is not from HER comes thees thing.
She have make nothing--believe me! I have come upon your assignation
with Miss Essmith! I make but to pass you--to fly--to never come back!
I have say to Chu Chu, 'Fly!' We fly many miles. Sometimes together,
sometimes not so mooch! Sometimes in the saddle, sometimes on the neck!
Many things remain in the road; at the end, I myself remain! I have
say, 'Courage, Pancho will come!' Then I say, 'No, he is talk with Miss
Essmith!' I remember not more. I have creep here on the hands. Eet is
feenish!"

I looked at her distractedly. She smiled tenderly, and slightly smoothed
down and rearranged a fold of her dress to cover her delicate little
boot.

"But," I protested, "you are not much hurt, dearest. You have broken no
bones. Perhaps," I added, looking at the boot, "only a slight sprain.
Let me carry you to my horse; I will walk beside you, home. Do, dearest
Consita!"

She turned her lovely eyes towards me sadly. "You comprehend not, my
poor Pancho! It is not of the foot, the ankle, the arm, or the head that
I can say, 'She is broke!' I would it were even so. But