At first she is so inclined; and completes the turning of her steed. Almost in the same instant, she reins round again; and faces the phalanx of horsemen, already in full gallop towards her.
Her muttered words proclaim a purpose in this sudden change of tactics.
“Rangers—no! Too well dressed for those ragged vagabundos? Must be the party of ‘searchers,’ of which I’ve heard—led by the father of—Yes—yes it is they. Ay Dios! here is a chance of revenge, and without my seeking it; God wills it to be so!”
Instead of turning back among the bushes, she rides out into the open ground; and with an air of bold determination advances towards the horsemen, now near.
She pulls up, and awaits their approach; a black thought in her bosom.
In another minute she is in their midst—the mounted circle close drawn around her.
There are a hundred horsemen, oddly armed, grotesquely attired—uniform only in the coating of clay-coloured dust which adheres to their habiliments, and the stern seriousness observable in the bearing of all; scarce relieved by a slight show of curiosity.
Though it is an entourage to cause trembling—especially in a woman—Isidora does not betray it. She is not in the least alarmed. She anticipates no danger from those who have so unceremoniously surrounded her. Some of them she knows by sight; though not the man of more than middle age, who appears to be their leader, and who confronts, to question her.
But she knows him otherwise. Instinct tells her he is the father of the murdered man—of the woman, she may wish to gee slain, but assuredly, shamed. Oh! what an opportunity!
“Can you speak French, mademoiselle?” asks Woodley Poindexter, addressing her in this tongue—in the belief that it may give him a better chance of being understood. “Speak better Inglees—very little, sir.”