till,
as Ludwig, he is at a loss what to think. For why should the Tovas
chief have made that abrupt departure from his late abiding place? The
reason assigned by Cypriano is not, to his view, satisfactory; though he
cannot imagine any other. So, they finish their suppers and retire to
rest, without having arrived at any certain conclusion, one way or the
other.

With heads rested upon their saddles, and their ponchos wrapped around
them, they seek sleep, Ludwig first finding it; next Cypriano, though he
lies long awake--kept so by torturing thoughts. But tired nature at
length overpowers him, and he too sinks into slumber.

The gaucho alone surrenders not to the drowsy god; but, repelling his
attacks, still lies reflecting. Thus run his reflections--as will be
seen, touching near the truth:

"_Carramba_! I can think of but one man in all the world who had an
interest in the death of my dear master. One there was who'd have given
a good deal to see him dead--that's El Supremo. No doubt he searched
high and low for us, after we gave him the slip. But then, two years
gone by since! One would think it enough to have made him almost forget
us. Forgive, no! that wouldn't be Senor Jose Francia. He never
forgives. Nor is it likely he has forgotten, either, what the _dueno_
did. Crossing him in his vile purpose, was just the sort of thing to
stick in his crop for the remainder of his life; and I shouldn't wonder
if it's his hand has been here. Odd, those tracks of a shod horse; four
times back and forward! And the last of them, by their look, must have
been made as late as yesterday--some time in the early morning, I should
say. Beyond the old _tolderia_, downward, they've gone. I wish I'd
turned a bit that way as we came up, so as to be sure of it. Well, I'll
find that out, when we get back from this pursuit; which I very much
fear will prove a wild goose chase."

For a time he lies without stirring, or moving a muscle, on his back,
with eyes seemingly fixed upon the stars, like an ancient astrologer in
the act of consulting them for the solution of some deep mystery hidden
from mortal ken. Then, as if having just solved it, he gives a sudden
start, exclaiming:

"_Sangre de Crista_! that's the explanation of all, the whole affair;
murder, abduction, everything."

His words, though only muttered, awaken Cypriano, still only
half-asleep.

"What is it, Gaspar?" questions the youth.

"Oh, nothing, _s