“Certainly she’s the most beautiful captive I’ve ever assisted at the taking of.”
“Captive!” mutters Uraga, in soliloquy. “I wish she were, in a sense different.”
Then, with a frown upon his face, continuing,—
“What matters it! When he is out of the way, I shall have it all my own way. Woo her as Tarquin did Lucretia, and she will yield not as the Roman matron, but as a Mexican woman—give her consent when she can no longer withhold it. What is it, cabo?”
The interrogatory is addressed to a corporal who has ridden alongside, and halts, saluting him.
“Colonel, the alferez sends me to report that the Indian is no longer with us.”
“What! the man Manuel?”
“The same, colonel.”
“Halt!” commands Uraga, shouting aloud to the troop, which instantly comes to a stand. “What’s this I hear, alferez?” he asks, riding back, and speaking to the sub-lieutenant.
“Colonel, we miss the fellow who guided us. He must have dropped behind as we came out of the gorge. He was with us on leaving the house, and along the valley road.”