But before shadowing the bright scene we have painted by thoughts of the dark scheme so disclosed, let us seek society of a gentler kind. We shall find it in the marquee set apart for Adela Miranda and her maid.
It scarce needs to say that a change is observable in the appearance of the lady. Her dress is travel-stained, bedraggled by dust and rain; her hair, escaped from its coif, hangs dishevelled; her cheeks show the lily where but roses have hitherto bloomed. She is sad, drooping, despondent.
The Indian damsel seems to suffer less from her captivity, having less to afflict her—no dread of that terrible calamity which, like an incubus, broods upon the mind of her mistress.
In the conversation passing between them Conchita is the comforter.
“Don’t grieve so, senorita,” she says, “I’m sure it will be all right yet. Something whispers me it will. It may be the good Virgin—bless her! I heard one of the soldiers say they’re taking us to Santa Fé, and that Don Valerian will be tried by a court martial—I think that’s what he called it. Well, what of it? You know well he hasn’t done anything for which they can condemn him to death—unless they downright assassinate him. They dare not do that, tyrants as they are.”
At the words “assassinate him,” the young lady gives a start. It is just that which is making her so sad. Too well she knows the man into whose hands they have unfortunately fallen. She remembers his design, once nigh succeeding, only frustrated by that hurried flight from their home. Is it likely the fiend will be contented to take her brother back and trust to the decision of a legal tribunal, civil or military? She cannot believe it; but shudders as she reflects upon what is before them.
“Besides,” pursues Conchita, in her consolatory strain, “your gallant Francisco and my big, brave Gualtero have gone before us. They’ll be in Albuquerque when we get there, and will be sure to hear of our arrival. Trust them for doing something to save Don Valerian.”
“No, no,” despondingly answers Adela, “they can do nothing for my brother. That is beyond their power, even if he should ever reach there. I fear he never will—perhaps, none of us.”
“Santissima! What do you mean, senorita? Surely these men will not murder us on the way?”
“They are capable of doing that—anything. Ah! Conchita, you do not know them. I am in as much danger as my brother, for I shall choose death rather than—”