“You speak Spanish too well, mio capitan,” continued she. “Had you cried ‘Halt!’ in your native tongue, I should at once have pulled up, and perhaps saved my pet. Ah, me!—pobre yegua! pobre Zola!”
As she uttered the last exclamation, her feelings once more overcame her; and sinking down upon her knees, she passed her arms around the neck of the mustang, now stiff and cold. Her face was buried in the long thick mane, and I could perceive the tears sparkling like dew-drops over the tossed hair.
“Pobre Lolita!” she continued, “I have good cause to grieve; I had reason to love you well. More than once you saved me from the fierce Lipan and the brutal Comanche. What am I to do now? I dread the Indian foray; I shall tremble at every sign of the savage. I dare no more venture upon the prairie; I dare not go abroad; I must tamely stay at home. Mia querida! you were my wings: they are clipped—I fly no more.”
All this was uttered in a tone of extreme bitterness; and I—I who so loved my own brave steed—could appreciate her feelings. With the hope of imparting even a little consolation, I repeated my offer.
“Señorita,” I said, “I have swift horses in my troop—some of noble race—”
“You have no horse in your troop I value.”
“You have not seen them all?”
“All—every one of them—to-day, as you filed out of the city.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed, yes, noble capitan. I saw you as you carried yourself so cavalierly at the head of your troop of filibusteros—Ha, ha, ha!”