"I will guard her as my sister; as my life," she answered. "No harm shall come to her, save through my life. You shall find her safe when you return, or you shall find us together."
"I know it," he said, gloomily. "I know it, Marguerita. Yet, I think we shall never meet again," he added, in a whisper.
"We shall—we shall meet again!" she exclaimed, almost triumphantly. "If not on earth—there, there, where there are no wars, and no enemies—where we shall part no more forever!"
"Amen!" replied Pierrie.
Two hours later, and the horse-tramps of the dragoons had died away in the distance, and Julia had wept herself into forgetfulness of her sorrows on the bosom of Marguerita.
The morning which followed the departure of Pierre Delacroix and his companions from the ruined rancho, dawned as serene and gentle as the waking of a new-born child.
The song of birds and the distant water-fall hailed Julia, as she awoke from her slumbers; and the soft, melancholy singing of Marguerita suddenly reminded her where she was.
A moment afterwards the song ceased, the door flew open, and Marguerita entered, leaving several choice and dainty eatables, and addressed her guest:
"You must pardon me, lady, if I perform these little offices myself, and intrude my services upon you, for the fortunes of war have imposed the task of such light labours on me, happier than many of my sisters, who are reduced to utter penury and ruin."