He did not slacken his pace until he drew bridle in the saguan of the Presidio.
His panting horse had to pay for the bitter reflections that tortured the soul of his master.
Chapter Twenty Three.
The first thing which Rosita did, after the noise without had ceased, was to glide forth and peep through the cactus-fence. She had heard the bugle again, and she wished to be sure that the intruders were gone.
To her joy, she beheld the troop some distance off, defiling up the valley.
She ran back into the house and communicated the intelligence to her mother, who had again seated herself, and was quietly smoking her pipe of punche.
“Dastardly ruffians!” exclaimed the latter. “I knew they would be gone. Even an old woman and a dog are enough. Oh, that my brave Carlos had been here! He would have taught that proud Gachupino we were not so helpless! Ha! that would Carlos!”
“Do not think of it any more, dear mother; I don’t think they will return. You have frightened them away,—you and our brave Cibolo. How well he behaved! But I must see,” she added, hastily casting her eyes round the room; “he may be hurt. Cibolo! Cibolo! here, good fellow! Come, I’ve got something for you. Ho, brave dog!”