"Oh, my God!" cried poor Ethel, "I hope they won't murder us!"
By the white look on St. Nivel's face, as he sat with his teeth set, I saw that there was something in his mind which he feared for his sister more than death.
I knew afterwards what some of these South American half-bred freebooters were like.
The men who had ridden up by the side of the train were a queer-looking lot.
For the most part they wore very loose garments and high-crowned hats, somewhat of the kind worn by Guy Fawkes. Slung at the saddle of each man was a coil of rope—a lasso. Nearly every one of them carried a rifle.
"I shall get my revolver," I exclaimed. "I've left it in my dressing-bag."
"Do nothing of the sort," cried St. Nivel, in alarm; "they would shoot you instantly."
"We're being 'held up' then?" I queried.
"Yes; that's it," he answered shortly.
At once all thought of my packet went out of my mind; I thought only of Dolores. I rose from my seat and, despite St. Nivel's remonstrance, passed rapidly to the rear of the brilliantly lighted train. I had met her as she came out of the dining-car, and she had told me she intended sitting with her aunt until it was time to retire for the night at ten o'clock. She intended to slip out, dear girl, for a few minutes before she went to bed to say good-night to me.