“She was murdered!”
Regret at having initiated a conversation—that had stirred up such a melancholy memory—hindered me from making rejoinder; and I remained silent. My silence, however, did not stay the tale. Perhaps my companion longed to unburden himself; or, with some vague hope of sympathy, felt relief in having a listener. After a pause he proceeded to narrate the story of his love, and the sad incidents that led to its fatal termination.
Chapter Ninety Two.
Gabriella Gonzales.
“Puez, Señor!” commenced the Mexican, “your comrades tell me, you have been campaigning down below on the Rio Grande.”
“Quite true—I have.”
“Then you know something of our Mexican frontier life—how for the last half century we have been harassed by the Indios bravos—our ranchos given to the flames—our grand haciendas plundered and laid waste—our very towns attacked—many of them pillaged, destroyed, and now lying in ruins.”
“I have heard of these devastations. Down in Texas, I have myself been an eye-witness to a similar condition of things.”