ceived my order to do so, to prevent the risk of the padre
being shot at on his return to the camp.

Some time had passed away, when a horseman was seen coming over the
plain, and the padre's voice was heard shouting,--"All right! They are
friends, and will be here anon!"

In another minute he had reached us. "Who do you think they are?" he
exclaimed. "The labourers of your father and Senor Concannan, with a
number of villagers and blacks; and some of my people, headed by Senor
Denis, your young brother, and your Irish servant. They knew my voice,
which I took care to let them hear before I approached; and I told them
that I would ride back and inform you, lest you should begin peppering
at them as they marched here to embrace you. They have come in search
of Aqualonga and his band, whom they had traced in this direction,
having ascertained that he it was who had carried off Donna Norah."

My uncle and the whole party were thankful to have recovered her without
having to fight, as they had expected; though Gerald declared that he
was sorry not to be able to break a lance in her service, against the
renowned tawny-skinned chieftain Aqualonga.

"Faith, Masther Gerald, it's much betther as it is," observed Tim, "as
the savage might have managed to run his lance into you; and Miss Norah,
depend on it, is a mighty deal more pleased to have no blood spilt in
her cause."

We were now--our two parties forming one camp--capable of setting at
defiance any enemies likely to approach us.

The next morning we continued our journey; and at length, after a
somewhat fatiguing march over the wide-extended plain,--having to cross
several rivers and swamps, sometimes fording them, and at others passing
over in hide-formed canoes, while the horses swam behind us,--we reached
Don Fernando's. Our welcome was such as might have been expected: Norah
was received as a daughter, and Don Carlos and I were treated as heroes;
and by none more so than by Isabella Monterola,--who has since, to my
great happiness, become my wife. My cousin, Colonel Acosta, as I will
still call him, was truly mourned for. "Poor fellow!" said Don
Fernando; "the loss is ours. He would never have recovered the death of
Donna Paola."

The next day the bandit chief, whose safe-keeping cost us much anxiety,
was sent off under a strong escort to Popayan; where he was, soon after,
ordered to be shot. An immense crowd collected to gaze on an Indian who
had bee