Suddenly she stops, and listens. Clearer rings the “tramp—tramp,” as nearer the horseman approaches. Coming up behind, from the direction of the town, who can it be but one in pursuit of them? And if a pursuer, what other than Aguara?
Still Nacena is in doubt, and deems it strange. As they stole away from Shebotha’s hut, and through the straggling suburb of the tolderia, all was darkness and silence, everybody seeming asleep. Who or what could have awakened the cacique, and apprised him of the flight of his captive?
In asking herself these questions, Kaolin’s sister is under the belief, that the sorceress is herself still a prisoner, in the keeping of that stalwart and redoubtable gaucho. Hence her surprise at their being pursued, with the uncertainty that they are so, and the further doubt of the pursuer being Aguara.
He it is, notwithstanding; and as yet pursuing alone. For although soon can be heard the hoof-strokes of other horses than his also following, these are faint and far-off. He himself hears them; knows it is a party of his young braves pressing on after, but will not wait for them to come up. For he hopes to overtake the fugitives, ere they can reach the place of rendezvous Shebotha has spoken of, and recover his captive before she can fling herself into the arms of protecting friends.
In this hope, alas! he is not disappointed. Dashing on through the darkness along a road with every foot of which both he and his horse are familiar, he first comes up with the half-witted creature lagging behind, soon as beside him putting the question—
“Where is the paleface, your prisoner?”
The man, frightened at seeing it is the cacique, in his confusion hesitates to make reply. But Aguara does not wait for it. He hears voices ahead—soft and sweet, though raised in tones of alarm—and knows she must be there. Giving his horse’s head a wrench, so as to shave close past the delinquent jailer, he raises his macana, and dealing a downward blow, strikes the latter to the earth: then hastens on after the others.
Nacena now knows for certain that they are pursued, as also who is the pursuer. She has heard the question asked by Aguara, recognising his voice; heard also the dull thud of his club as it descended on the skull of the unfortunate man; and now again hears the trampling of hoofs renewed and drawing nearer. She has still hold of Francesca’s hand, and for a moment debates within herself what is best to be done, and whether she should not release it, and turning show front to the pursuer.
Too late for that, or aught else likely to be of service either to herself or protégée. Before any resolve reaches her the cacique, is by their side; and flinging himself from his horse, grasps both by the wrists, wrenching asunder their joined hands. Then turning upon the Indian girl with a cry of rage—a curse in the Tovas tongue—he strikes her with his shut fist, inflicting a blow which sends her reeling to the earth. Before she can regain her feet he is once more upon his horse, and heading back for the tolderia—his recovered captive in his arms!