A horse saddled and bridled rushing to and fro—a man prostrate upon the ground, with a lazo looped around his arms, to all appearance dead—a sombrero and serapé lying near, evidently not the man’s! What could be the interpretation of such a tableau?
The man was dressed in the rich costume of the Mexican ranchero—the horse also caparisoned in this elaborate and costly fashion.
At sight of both, the heart of the Louisianian leaped with joy. Whether dead or living, the man was the same she had seen from the azotea; and he was not Maurice Gerald.
She had doubted before—had hoped that it was not he; and her hopes were now sweetly confirmed.
She drew near and examined the prostrate form. She scanned the face, which was turned up—the man lying upon his back. She fancied she had seen it before, but was not certain.
It was plain that he was a Mexican. Not only his dress but his countenance—every line of it betrayed the Spanish-American physiognomy.
He was far from being ill-featured. On the contrary, he might have been pronounced handsome.
It was not this that induced Louise Poindexter to leap down from her saddle, and stoop over him with a kind pitying look.
The joy caused by his presence—by the discovery that he was not somebody else—found gratification in performing an act of humanity.
“He does not seem dead. Surely he is breathing?”