“And your wife? your other child?” I inquired, eager to know the rest.
“They had escaped. In the terrible conflict—for my poor peons battled bravely—my wife, with Zoe in her arms, had rushed out and hidden in a cave that was in the garden. I found them in the ranche of a vaquero in the woods, whither they had wandered.”
“And your daughter Adèle—have you heard aught of her since?”
“Yes, yes, I will come to that in a moment.
“My mine, at the same time, was plundered and destroyed; many of the workmen were slaughtered before they could escape; and the work itself, with my fortune, became a ruin.
“With some of the miners, who had fled, and others of Valverde, who, like me, had suffered, I organised a band, and followed the savage foe; but our pursuit was vain, and we turned back, many of us broken in health and heart.
“Oh, monsieur, you cannot know what it is to have thus lost a favourite child! you cannot understand the agony of the bereaved father!”
The speaker pressed his head between his hands, and remained for a moment silent. His countenance bore the indications of heartrending sorrow.
“My story will soon be told—up to the present time. Who knows the end?
“For years I hung upon the frontiers of the Indian country, hunting for my child. I was aided by a small band, most of them unfortunates like myself, who had lost wife or daughter in a similar manner. But our means became exhausted, and despair wore us out. The sympathies of my companions grew old and cold. One after another gave up. The Governor of New Mexico offered us no aid. On the contrary, it was suspected then—it is now known—that the Governor himself was in secret league with the Navajo chiefs. He had engaged to leave them unmolested; while they, on their side, promised to plunder only his enemies!