He lies thinking of the beautiful being who brought him thither, shaping conjectures in regard to the strangeness of the situation. He has no idea how long he may have been unconscious; nor has the whole time been like death--unless death have its dreams. For he has had dreams, all with a fair form and lovely face flitting and figuring in them. It is the wild huntress.

He has a fancy that the face seemed familiar to him; or, if not familiar, one he has looked upon before. He endeavours to recall all those he had met in Mexico during his sojourn there; for if encountered anywhere, it must have been there. His female acquaintances had been but few in that foreign land. He can remember every one of them. She is not of their number. If he has ever seen her before their encounter on the Staked Plain, it must have been while pa.s.sing along the street of some Mexican city.

And this could scarcely be, in his silent reflection; for such a woman once seen--even but for a moment--could never be forgotten.

He lies pondering on all that has pa.s.sed--on all he can now recall.

Walt had got back, then, to the place where they parted. He must have found food and water, though it matters now no more. Enough that he has got back, and both are in an asylum of safety, under friendly protection. This is evident from the surroundings.

Still feeble as a child, the effort of thought very soon fatigues him; and this, with the narcotic influence of the flower perfume, the songs of the birds, and the soothing monotone of the waters, produces a drowsiness that terminates in a profound slumber. This time he sleeps without dreaming.

How long he cannot tell; but once more he is awakened by voices. As before, two persons are engaged in conversation. But far different from those already heard. The bird-music still swelling in through the window is less sweet than the tones that now salute his ear.

As before, the speakers are invisible, outside the room. But he can perceive that they are close to the door, and the first words heard admonish him of their design to enter.

"Now, Conchita! Go get the wine, and bring it along with you. The doctor left directions for it to be given him at this hour."

"I have it here, senorita."

"_Vaya_! you have forgotten the gla.s.s. You would not have him drink out of the bottle?"

"_Ay Dios_! and so I have," responds Conchita, apparently gliding off to possess herself of the required article, with which she soon returns.

"Ish!" cautions the other voice; "if he be still asleep, we must not wake him. Don Prospero said that. Step lightly, _muchacha_!"

Hamersley is awake, with eyes wide open, and consciousness quite restored. But at this moment something--an instinct of dissembling-- causes him to counterfeit sleep; and he lies still, with shut eyelids.

He can hear the door turning upon its hinges of raw hide, then the soft rustle of robes, while he is sensible of that inexpressible something that denotes the gentle presence of woman.

"Yes, he is asleep," says the first speaker, "and for the world we may not disturb him. The doctor was particular about that, and we must do exactly as he said. You know, Conchita, this gentleman has been in great danger. Thanks to the good Virgin, he'll get over it. Don Prospero a.s.sures us he will."

"What a pity if he should not! Oh, senorita, isn't he--"

"Isn't he what?"

"Handsome--beautiful! He looks like a picture I've seen in the church; an angel--only that the angel had wings, and no mustachios."

"Pif, girl; don't speak in that silly way, or I shall be angry with you.

_Vayate_! you may take away the wine. We can come again when he awakes. _Guardate_! Tread lightly."

Again there is the rustling of a dress; but this time as if only one of the two were moving off. The other seems still to linger by the side of the couch.

The invalid queries which of the two it is. There is an electricity that tells him; and, for an instant, he thinks of opening his eyes, and proclaiming consciousness of what has been pa.s.sing.

A thought restrains him--delicacy. The lady will know that he has been awake all the while, and overheard the conversation. It has been in Spanish, but she is aware that he understands this, for he has no doubt that the "senorita" is she who has saved him.

He remains without moving, without unclosing his eyelids. But his ears are open, and he hears a speech pleasanter than any yet spoken.

It is in the shape of a soliloquy--a few words softly murmured. They are, "_Ay de mil_ 'Tis true what Conchita says, and as Valerian told me.

_He is, indeed, handsome--beautiful_!"

More than ever Hamersley endeavours to counterfeit sleep, but he can resist no longer. Involuntarily his eyes fly open, and, with head upraised, he turns towards the speaker.

He sees what he has been expecting, what he beheld in fancy throughout his long, delirious dream--the fair form and beautiful face that so much interested him, even in that hour when life seemed to be forsaking him.

It is the angel of the desert, no longer in huntress garb, but dressed as a lady.

There is a red tinge upon her cheek, that appears to have flushed up suddenly, as if suspecting her soliloquy has been heard. The words have but parted from her lips, and the thought is yet thrilling in her heart.

Can he have heard it? He shows no sign.

She approaches the couch with a look of solicitude, mingled with interrogation. A hand is held out to her, and a word or two spoken to say she is recognised. Her eyes sparkle with joy, as she perceives in those of the invalid that reason is once more seated on its throne.

"I am so happy," she murmurs, "we are all so happy, to know you are out of danger. Don Prospero says so. You will now get well in a short time. But I forget; we were to give you something as soon as you should awake. It is only some wine. Conchita, come hither!"

A young girl is seen stepping into the chamber. A glance would tell her to be the maid, if the overheard conversation had not already declared it. A little brown-skinned damsel, scarce five feet in height, with raven hair hanging in double plait down her back, and black eyes that sparkle like those of a basilisk.

Provident Conchila has brought the bottle and gla.s.s with her, and a portion of the famed grape juice of El Paso is administered to the invalid.

"How good and kind you've all been!" he says, as his head once more settles down upon the pillow. "And you especially, senorita. If I mistake not, I'm indebted to you for the saving of my life."

"Do not speak of that," she rejoins; "I've shown you no kindness in particular. You would not have one leave a fellow creature to perish?"

"Ah! but for you I should now have been in another world."

"No, indeed. There you are mistaken. If I had never come near you, you'd have been saved all the same. I have good news for you. Your comrade is safe, and here. He returned to your trysting-place, with both food and drink; so, as you see, I have no merit in having rescued you. But I must not talk longer. Don Prospero has given instructions for you to be kept quiet. I shall bring the doctor at once. Now that you are awake it is necessary he should see you."

Without waiting for a reply, she glides out of the room, Conchita having gone before.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

DON VALERIAN.

Hamersley lies pondering on what he has seen and heard, more especially on what he has overheard--that sweet soliloquy. Few men are insensible to flattery. And flattery from fair lips! He must be indeed near death whose heart-pulsations it does not affect.

But Don Prospero! Who is he? Is he the owner of the voice heard in dialogue with Walt Wilder? May he be the owner of all? This thought troubles the Kentuckian.

Approaching footsteps put a stop to his conjectures. There are voices outside, one of them the same late sounding so sweetly in his ears. The other is a man's, but not his who was conversing with Wilder. Nor is it that of the ex-Ranger himself. It is Don Prospero, who soon after enters the room, the lady leading the way.

A man of nigh sixty years of age, spare form and face, hair grizzled, cheeks wrinkled; withal hale and hearty, as can be told by the pleasant sparkle of his eye. Dressed in a semi-military suit, of a subdued tint, and facings that tell of the medical staff.

At a glance there is no danger in Don Prospero. The invalid feels easier, and breathes freely.

"Glad to see you looking so well," says Don Prospero, taking hold of his patient's wrist and trying the pulse. "Ah! much more regular; it will be all right now. Keep quiet, and we shall soon get you on your feet again. Come, senor! A little more of this grape-juice will do you no harm. Nothing like our New Mexican wine for bringing back a sick man to his appet.i.te. After that, we shall give you some wild-turkey broth and a bone to pick. In a day or two you'll be able to eat anything."

Other personages are now approaching the chamber. The lady glides out, calling,--

"Valerian!"