e his."

"Gaspar then; he it is that's behind."

She says this with a secret hope it may be so.

"It don't look like as if Gaspar was behind," returns Ludwig, hesitating
in his speech, for his eyes, as his heart, tell him there is still
something amiss. "Two of them," he continues, "are men, full grown, and
the third is surely Cypriano."

They have no time for further discussion or conjecture--no occasion for
it. The three shadowy figures are now very near, and just as the
foremost pulls up in front of the palings, the moon bursting forth from
behind a cloud flashes her full light upon his face, and they see it is
Gaspar. The figures farther off are lit up at the same time, and the
senora recognises them as her husband and nephew. A quick searching
glance carried behind to the croups of their horses shows her there is
no one save those seated in the saddle.

"Where is Francesca?" she cries out in agonised accents. "Where is my
daughter?"

No one makes answer; not any of them speaks. Gaspar, who is nearest,
but hangs his head, as does his master behind him.

"What means all this?" is her next question, as she dashes past the
gaucho's horse, and on to her husband, as she goes crying out, "Where is
Francesca? What have you done with my child?"

He makes no reply, nor any gesture--not even a word to acknowledge her
presence! Drawing closer she clutches him by the knee, continuing her
distracted interrogatories.

"Husband! why are you thus silent? Ludwig, dear Ludwig, why don't you
answer me? Ah! now I know. She is dead--dead!"

"Not _she_, but _he_," says a voice close to her ear--that of Gaspar,
who has dismounted and stepped up to her.

"He! who?"

"Alas! senora, my master, your husband."

"O Heavens! can this be true?" as she speaks, stretching her arms up to
the inanimate form, still in the saddle--for it is fast tied there--and
throwing them around it; then with one hand lifting off the hat, which
falls from her trembling fingers, she gazes on a ghastly face, and into
eyes that return not her gaze. But for an instant, when, with a wild
cry, she sinks back upon the earth, and lies silent, motionless, the
moonbeams shimmering upon her cheeks, showing them white and bloodless,
as if her last spark of life had departed!

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

ON THE TRAIL.

It is the day succeeding that on which the hunter-naturalist was carried
home a corpse, sitting upright in his saddle. The sun has g