"I can get one of the American's," he said. "He has an old one he never uses. He would lend me that, I know."
"Yes, but can you go to him to-night, Felipe?"
"Oh, yes," he answered. "I would wake him—he doesn't mind what I do. But what horse are you thinking of? One of his?"
"No, no," she cried; "I have a better plan than that. We must take my father's horse. I got the key this evening after he went out. Go first and get the saddle, and then here is the key."
His fingers tightened eagerly on hers. "You darling!" he whispered. "How clever you are! Ten times cleverer than I. Why didn't I ever think of that before? Wait. I'll be back in a moment." He gave her hand one more rapturous pressure, and loosing it, darted off like the wind to Stephens's house.
Stephens was a sound sleeper, but in the middle of the night he was waked by a sudden angry growl from Faro. He opened his eyes, but it was pitch-dark. A low knock was heard at the door. "Who is it?" he cried, first in English, then in Spanish.
A voice answered, likewise in Spanish. "Oh, Don Estevan, it's me, Felipe."
"Felipe!" he exclaimed. "Why, what the mischief are you up to now? But come in, the door isn't locked."
He heard the latch pulled, and seized the collar of Faro, who was snarling savagely. The door opened and the cool night air blew freshly in. A figure was dimly seen in the starlight. Felipe approached the bed. "Oh, Don Estevan!" he began at once, "do be kind to me; lend me your saddle—the old saddle, not the good one. You know the old one hanging on the wall in there."