Can it be, that she has been overtaken and captured? The interrogatory passes round. No one can answer it; though all are interested in the answer.
The Texans begin to feel something like shame. Their gallantry was appealed to, in that speech sent them from the cliff, “Tejanos! Cavalleros!”
Has she who addressed it succumbed to the pursuer? Is that beauteous form in the embrace of a paint-bedaubed savage?
They listen with ears intent,—many with pulses that beat high, and hearts throbbing with a keen anxiety.
They listen in vain.
There is no sound of hoof—no voice of woman—nothing, except the champing of bitts heard close by their side!
Can it be that she is taken?
Now that the darker design is stifled within their breasts, the hostility against one of their own race is suddenly changed into a more congenial channel.
Their vengeance, rekindled, burns fiercer than ever—since it is directed against the hereditary foe.
The younger and more ardent—among whom are the admirers of the Mexican maiden—can bear the uncertainty no longer. They spring into their saddles, loudly declaring their determination to seek her—to save her, or perish in the attempt.