“Philip, if you look into that girl's eyes again, unless it be to ask her to be your wife, I shall lose my faith in manly honor.”
Two days afterward Rawlins rode away on duty. A strange unrest had possessed the lieutenant since that brief talk with this old Puritan of a captain. Not another word had been said upon the subject, but every syllable that Rawlins spoke had struck home. Adriance respected and honored the grim, duty-loving troop commander whom some of the youngsters openly laughed at and referred to as “Praise the Lord Barebones” and “Captain Roundhead,” but the lieutenant well knew that no braver soldier, no “squar-er” captain drew sabre in the whole regiment than this faithful friend, who had long since singled him out for many an unusual kindness. He knew more—that in his high standard of honor and rectitude old Rawlins had said nothing which was not just and true.
Adriance knew well that he ought not to again seek that young girl's presence, and the blood rushed hotly to his cheek as he recalled the kiss his eager lips had stolen. Marry that old scoundrel's daughter? No, he could not; and yet how his pulses bounded at the thought of her—the sweet, shy gladness in her eyes, the soft, thrilling tones in her voice when she spoke his name, the heroism of her conduct in daring to seek his camp in the darkness of night and bring him warning of that diabolical scheme of robbery and murder; the refinement of her manner, and then, too, her knowledge of the English tongue. Where had she acquired these? What would she not be justified in thinking of him if he never came to seek and thank her?
“Hello! what's that?” was the sudden cry among the men. Two or three soldiers sat up in the shade and curiously inspected the coming object; others shouted laughing challenge. Riding solemnly forward, a little Mexican boy came straight to where Adriance was lying and handed him a note which he eagerly opened and read:
They suspect me, and they send me away tomorrow. To-night I go for the last time to the summer house alone. Isabel.
Gone was every resolution at the instant; gone all hesitancy. Adriance had not even time to wonder at the fact that she had written to him in English. Leaving the note for Rawlins to read when he returned, in one hour Phil was rolling from the camp in the ambulance. Soon after dark, leaving Private Regan and another man half a mile back from the walls of the corral, Mr. Adriance, all alone, slowly made his way afoot toward the dim lights at the rancho. Making wide circuit so as not to alarm the dogs, he never sought to draw near the little summer house until, from the east, he could see the brighter lights that gleamed in the bar and card room. Then he cautiously approached, his heart beating quickly and his knees trembling a little, perhaps from weakness. Hark! Faint, soft and clear, there rose upon the evening air the liquid notes of a guitar. It was she then—it was Isabel awaiting his coming, aye, signaling softly to call him to her. What could it mean but that she loved and longed to see him? A moment more and he was at the doorway, the very spot where he had surprised her that well-remembered night. The plaintive tinkle of the guitar continued, and there in the dark corner was the dim, white-robed form. He could almost distinguish the folds of the graceful rebosa.
“Isabel!” he whispered. Three more steps and he would be at her side. Suddenly two stalwart arms were thrown about him, a broad hand was on his mouth, stifling the utterance of a sound; the white-robed form in front leaped toward him, the rebosa falling to the ground. It was a man's voice—a Mexican's—that hissed the word's: “Quick! the pistol.” Another hand was at his holster. He realized instantly that he was lured, trapped; that his life was threatened. He was struggling violently, but, weakened by his wound, even his superb physique was well nigh powerless in the grasp of two or three men. Suddenly there came a whisper: “The sponge, the sponge!” and then the subtle odor of chloroform on the night air. And now he nerved himself for one supreme effort. A quick twist of his head and the hand was dislodged, a finger slipping between his teeth. With all his strength he crushed it to the very bone, and there was a yell of pain and terror. Then his own brave young voice rang out in one startling, rallying cry.
“Help! Regan, help!” Then crash and blows, the gleam of a knife, a rolling, rough-and-tumble struggle on the ground; then a woman's scream, a light, and Isabel had bounded into their midst, her mother at her back.
“Leon, my brother! In God's name, what do you mean?”
Even as she spoke her startled eyes fell on Adriance, staggering to his feet, pale, bleeding, faint. Another instant and he went crashing back against the guitar that, like siren's song, had lured him. One brave leap and she was at his side, her arms about his neck, his pallid face pillowed on her bosom.