d upon it.

She is in the verandah with her son, and side by side they stand gazing
outward, as long as there is light for them to see. Even after darkness
has descended they continue to strain their eyes mechanically, but
despairingly, she more hopeless and feeling more forlorn than ever. All
gone but Ludwig! for even her nephew may not return. Where Caspar, a
strong man and experienced in the ways of the wilderness, has failed to
find the lost ones, what chance will there be for Cypriano? More like
some cruel enemy has made captives of them all, killing all, one after
the other, and he, falling into the same snare, has been sacrificed as
the rest!

Dark as is this hour of her apprehension, there is yet a darker one in
store for her; but before it there is to be light, with joy--alas!
short-lived as that bright, garish gleam of sun which often precedes the
wildest burst of a storm. Just as the last ray of hope has forsaken
her, a house-dog, lying outstretched by the verandah starts to its feet
with a growl, and bounding off into the darkness, sets up a sonorous
baying.

Both mother and son step hastily forward to the baluster rail, and
resting hands on it, again strain their eyes outward, now as never
before, at the same time listening as for some signal sound, on the
hearing of which hung their very lives.

Soon they both hear and see what gives them gladness unspeakable, their
ears first imparting it by a sound sweeter to them than any music, for
it is the tread of horses' hoofs upon the firm turf of the plain; and
almost in the same instant they see the horses themselves, each with a
rider upon its back.

The exclamation that leaps from the mother's lips is the cry of a heart
long held in torture suddenly released, and without staying to repeat
it, she rushes out of the verandah and on across the patch of enclosed
ground--not stopping till outside the palings which enclose it. Ludwig
following, comes again by her side, and the two stand with eyes fixed on
the approaching forms, there now so near that they are able to make out
their number.

But this gives them surprise, somewhat alarming them afresh. For there
are but _three_ where there should be _four_.

"It must be your father and Francesca, with Caspar," says the senora,
speaking in doubt. "Cypriano has missed them all, I suppose. But he'll
come too--"

"No, mother," interrupts Ludwig, "Cypriano is there. I can see a white
horse, that must b