Maurice Gerald would have talked in that tongue to Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.
The Creole was acquainted with it sufficiently to have understood what was said, had she been near enough to distinguish the words.
The tone was animated on both sides, as if both speakers were in a passion. The listener was scarce displeased at this.
She rode nearer; once more pulled up; and once more sate listening.
The man’s voice was heard no longer.
The woman’s sounded dear and firm, as if in menace!
There was an interval of silence, succeeded by a quick trampling of horses—another pause—another speech on the part of the woman, at first loud like a threat, and then subdued as in a soliloquy—then another interval of silence, again broken by the sound of hoofs, as if a single horse was galloping away from the ground.
Only this, and the scream of an eagle, that, startled by the angry tones, had swooped aloft, and was now soaring above the glade.
The listener knew of the opening—to her a hallowed spot. The voices had come out of it.
She had made her last halt a little way from its edge.
She had been restrained from advancing by a fear—the fear of finding out a bitter truth.
Her indecision ending, she spurred on into the glade.
A horse saddled and bridled rushing to and fro—a man prostrate upon the ground, with a lazo looped around his arms, to all appearance dead—a sombrero and serape lying near, evidently not the man’s!
What could be the interpretation of such a tableau?
The man was dressed in the rich costume of the Mexican ranchero—the horse also caparisoned in this elaborate and costly fashion.
At sight of both, the heart of the Louisianian leaped with joy.
Whether dead or living, the man was the same she had seen from the azotea; and he was not Maurice Gerald.
She had doubted before—had hoped that it was not he; and her hopes were now sweetly confirmed.
She drew near and examined the prostrate form. She scanned the face, which was turned up—the man lying upon his back.
She fancied she had seen it before, but was not certain.
It was plain that he was a Mexican.
Not only his dress but his countenance—every line of it betrayed the Spanish-American physiognomy. He was far from being ill-featured.
On the contrary, he might have been pronounced handsome.
It was not this that induced Louise Poindexter to leap down from her saddle, and stoop over him with a kind pitying look.
The joy caused by his presence—by the discovery that he was not somebody else—found gratification in performing an act of humanity.
“He does not seem dead. Surely he is breathing?”
The cord appeared to hinder his respiration.
It was loosened on the instant—the noose giving way to a Woman’s strength.
“Now, he can breathe more freely.
Pardieu! what can have caused it?
Lazoed in his saddle and dragged to the earth?
That is most probable.
But who could have done it?
It was a woman’s voice. Surely it was? I could not be mistaken about that.
“And yet there is a man’s hat, and a serape, not this man’s!
Was there another, who has gone away with the woman?
Only one horse went off.
“Ah! he is coming to himself! thank Heaven for that!
He will be able to explain all.
You are recovering, sir?”
“S’norita! who are you?” asked Don Miguel Diaz, raising his head, and looking apprehensively around. “Where is she?” he continued.
“Of whom do you speak?
I have seen no one but yourself.”
“Carrambo! that’s queer.
Haven’t you met a woman astride a grey horse?”
“I heard a woman’s voice, as I rode up.”
“Say rather a she-devil’s voice: for that, sure, is Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos.”
“Was it she who has done this?”
“Maldito, yes!
Where is she now?