the last appeal.

“i have news for you, nina.”

it is colonel miranda speaking to his sister, shortly after the conversation reported.

“what news, valerian?”

“well, there are two sorts of them.”

“both good, i hope.”

“not altogether; one will be pleasant to you, the other, perhaps, a little painful.”

“in that case they should neutralise one another; anyhow, let me hear them.”

“i shall tell the pleasant ones first. we shall soon have an opportunity of leaving this lonely place.”

“do you call that good news? i rather think it the reverse. what will the bad be?”

“but, dear adela, our life here, away from all society, has been a harsh experience—to you a terrible one.”

“in that, hermano mio, you’re mistaken. you know i don’t care a straw for what the world calls society—never did. i prefer being free from its stupid restraints and silly conventionalities. give me nature for my companion—ay, in her wildest scenes and most surly moods.”

“surely you’ve had both to a surfeit.”

“nothing of the kind; i’m not tired of nature yet. i have never been happier than in this wilderness home. how different from my convent school—my prison, i should rather call it! oh, it is charming! and if i were to have my way, it should never come to an end. but why do you talk of leaving this place? do you suppose the troubles are over, and we can return safely? i don’t wish to go there, brother. after what has happened, i hate new mexico, and would prefer staying in the llano estacado.”

“i have no thought of going back to new mexico.”

“where, then, brother?”

“in the very opposite direction—to the united states. don francisco advises me to do so; and i have yielded to his counsel.”

adela seems less disposed to offer opposition. she no longer protests against the change of residence.

“dear sister,” he continues, “we cannot do better. there seems little hope of our unfortunate country getting rid of her tyrants—at least, for some time to come. when the day again arrives for our patriots to pronounce, i shall know it in time to be with them. now, we should only think of our safety. although i don’t wish to alarm you, i’ve never felt it quite safe here. who knows, but that uraga may yet discover our hiding-place? he has his scouts searching in all directions. every time manuel makes a visit to the settlements, i have fear of his being followed back. therefore, i think it will be wiser for us to carry out our original design, and go on to the american states.”

“do you intend accompanying don francisco?”

she listens eagerly for an answer.

“yes; but not now. it will be some time before he can return to us.”

“he is going home first, and will then come back?”

“not home—not to his home.”

“where, then?”

“that is the news i thought might be painful. he has resolved upon going on to our country for reasons already known to you. we suspect uraga of having been at the head of the red robbers who have plundered him and killed his people. he is determined to find out and punish the perpetrators of that foul deed. it will be difficult; nay, more, there will be danger in his attempting it—i’ve told him so.”

“dear brother, try to dissuade him!”

if hamersley could but hear the earnest tone in which the appeal is spoken it would give him gratification.

“i have tried, but to no purpose. it is not the loss of his property—he is generous, and does not regard it. his motive is a nobler, a holier one. his comrades have been murdered; he says he will seek the assassins and obtain redress, even at the risk of sacrificing his own life.”

“a hero! who could not help loving him?”

adela does not say this aloud, nor to her brother. it is a thought, silent within the secret recesses of her own heart.

“if you wish,” continues the colonel, “i will see him, and again try to turn him from this reckless course; though i know there is little hope. stay! a thought strikes me, sister. suppose you speak to him. a woman’s words are more likely to be listened to; and i know that yours will have great weight with him. he looks upon you as the saviour of his life, and may yield to your request.”

“if you think so, valerian—”

“i do. i see him coming this way. remain where you are. i shall send him in to you.”

with a heart heaving and surging, hamersley stands in the presence of her, the sole cause of its tumultuous excitement. for he has been summoned thither in a manner that somewhat surprises him. “don francisco, my sister wishes a word with you,” is the speech of colonel miranda, an invitation promptly responded to.

what is to be the import of his interview, unexpected, unsought, apparently commanded?

he asks himself this question as he proceeds towards the place where she stands waiting to receive him. coming up to her, he says,—

“senorita, your brother has told me you wish to speak with me?”

“i do,” she replies, without quail in her look or quiver in her voice.

in returning her glance hamersley feels as if his case is hopeless. that very day he had thought of proposing to her. it almost passes from his mind. so cool, she cannot care for him. he remains silent, leaving her to proceed.

“señor, it is about your going to the rio del norte. my brother tells me such is your intention. we wish you not to go, don francisco. there is danger in your doing it.”

“it is my duty.”

“in what respect? explain yourself!”

“my brave comrades have been slain—assassinated. i have reason to believe that in the town of albuquerque i may discover their assassins—at all events their chief, and perhaps bring him to justice. i intend trying, if it costs me my life.”

“do you reflect what your life is worth?”

“to me not much.”

“it may be to others. you have at home a mother, brothers, and sisters. perhaps one dearer?”

“no—not at home.”

“elsewhere, then?”

he is silent under this searching inquisition.

“do you think that danger to your life would be unhappiness to her’s—your death her life’s misery?”

“my dishonour should be more, as it would to myself. it is not vengeance i seek against those who have murdered my men, only to bring them to justice. i must do that, or else proclaim myself a poltroon—i feel myself one—a self-accusation that would give me a life-long remorse. no, señorita adela. it is kind of you to take an interest in my safety. i already owe you my life; but i cannot permit you to save it again, at the sacrifice of honour, of duty, of humanity.”

hamersley fancies himself being coldly judged and counselled with indifference. could he know the warm, wild admiration struggling in the breast of her who counsels him, he would make rejoinder in different fashion.

soon after he talks in an altered tone, and with changed understanding. so also does she, hitherto so difficult of comprehension.

“go!” she cries. “go and get redress of your wrongs, justice for your fallen comrades; and if you can, the punishment of their assassins. but remember! if it brings death to you, there is one who will not care to live after.”

“who?” he asks, springing forward, with heart on fire and eyes aflame. “who?”

he scarce needs to put the question. it is already answered by the emphasis on her last words.

but it is again replied to, this time in a more tranquil tone; the long, dark lashes of the speaker veiling her eyes as she pronounces her own name,—

“adela miranda!”

from poverty to riches, from a dungeon to bright daylight, from the agonising struggle of drowning to that confident feeling when the feet stand firm upon terra firma—all these are sensations of a pleasantly-exciting kind. they are dull in comparison with that delirious joy, the lot of the despairing lover on finding that his despair has been all a fancy, and that his passion is reciprocated.

such a joy thrills through hamersley’s breast as he hears the name pronounced. it is like a cabalistic speech, throwing open to him the portals of paradise.