LITMIR.BIZ

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himself not at all about his daughter, Don Sylva ordered his servants to cast the ounces into the street. A shower of gold then literally began falling on the wretches, who rushed with incredible ardour on this new species of manna. The Calle de la Merced offered, at that moment, the most singular sight imaginable. The gold poured and poured on; it seemed to be inexhaustible. The beggars leaped like coyotes on the precious metal, overthrowing and trampling underfoot the weaker.

      At the height of the shower a horseman came galloping up. Astonished, confounded by what he saw, he stopped for a moment to look around him; then he drove his spurs into his horse, and by dealing blows of his chicote liberally all around, he succeeded in clearing the dense crowd, and reached the hacendero's house, which he entered.

      "Here is the count," Don Sylva said laconically to his daughter.

      In fact, within a minute that gentleman entered the saloon.

      "Halloh!" he said, stopping at the doorway, "What strange notion is this of yours, Don Sylva? On my soul, you are amusing yourself by throwing millions out of the window, to the still greater amusement of the leperos and other rogues of the same genus!"

      "Ah, 'tis you, señor Conde," the hacendero replied calmly; "you are welcome. I shall be with you in an instant. Only these few handfuls, and it will be finished."

      "Don't hurry yourself," the count said with a laugh. "I confess that the fancy is original;" and drawing near the young lady, whom he saluted with exquisite politeness, he continued—

      "Would you deign, Señorita, to give me the word of this enigma, which, I confess, interests me in the highest degree?"

      "Ask my father, Señor," she answered with a certain dryness, which rendered conversation impossible.

      The count feigned not to notice this rebuff; he bowed with a smile, and falling into a butaca, said coolly—

      "I will wait; I am in no hurry."

      The hacendero, in telling his daughter that the gentleman he intended for her husband was a handsome man, had in no respect flattered him. Count Maxime Gaëtan de Lhorailles was a man of thirty at the most, well built and active, and slightly above the middle height. His light hair allowed him to be recognised as a son of the north; his features were fine, his glance expressive, and his hands and feet denoted race. Everything about him indicated the gentleman of an old stock; and if Don Sylva was not more deceived about the moral qualities than he had been about the physical, Count de Lhorailles was really a perfect gentleman.

      At length the hacendero exhausted all the gold Cucharés had brought: he then hurled the table into the street, ordered the windows to be closed, and came back to take a seat by the side of the count, rubbing his hands.

      "There," he said with a joyous air, "that's finished. Now I am quite at your service."

      "First one word."

      "Say it."

      "Excuse me. You are aware that I am a stranger, and such as thirsting for instruction."

      "I am listening to you."

      "Since I have lived in Mexico I have seen many extraordinary customs. I ought to be blasé about novelties; still, I must confess that what I have just seen surpasses anything I have hitherto witnessed. I should like to be certain whether this is a custom of which I was hitherto ignorant."

      "What are you talking about?"

      "Why, what you were doing when I arrived—that gold you were dropping like a beneficent dew on the bandits of every description collected before your house; ill weeds, between ourselves, to be thus bedewed."

      Don Sylva burst into a laugh.

      "No, that is not a custom of ours," he replied.

      "Very good. Then, you were indulging in the regal pastime of throwing a million to the scum. Plague! Don Sylva, a man must be as rich as yourself to allow such a gratification."

      "Things are not as you fancy."

      "Still I saw it raining ounces."

      "True, but they did not belong to me."

      "Better and better still. That renders the affair more complicated; you heighten my curiosity immensely."

      "I will satisfy it."

      "I am all attention, for the affair is growing as interesting to me as a story in the 'Arabian Nights.'"

      "H'm!" the hacendero said, tossing his head, "It interests you more than you perhaps suspect."

      "How so?"

      "You shall judge."

      Doña Anita was in torture; she knew not what to do. Seeing that her father was about to divulge all to the count, she did not feel in herself the courage to be present at such a revelation, and rose tottering.

      "Gentlemen," she said in a feeble voice, "I feel indisposed; be kind enough to allow me to retire."

      "Really," the count said, as he hurried towards her, and offered her his arm to support her, "you are pale, Doña Anita. Allow me to accompany you to your apartment."

      "I thank you, caballero, but I am strong enough to proceed there alone, and, while duly grateful for your offer, pray permit me to decline it."

      "As you please, señorita," the count replied, inwardly piqued by this refusal.

      Don Sylva entertained for a moment the idea of ordering his daughter to remain; but the poor girl turned towards him so despairing a glance that he did not feel the courage to impose on her a longer torture.

      "Go my child," he said to her.

      Anita hastened to take advantage of the permission; she left the salón, and sought refuge in her bedroom, where she sank into a chair, and burst into tears.

      "What is the matter with Doña Anita?" the count asked with sympathy, so soon as she had gone.

      "Vapours—headache—what do I know?" the hacendero replied, shrugging his shoulders. "All young girls are like that. In a few minutes she will have forgotten it."

      "All the better. I confess to you that I was alarmed."

      "But now that we are alone, would you not like me to give you the explanation of the enigma which appeared to interest you so much?"

      "On the contrary, speak without further delay: for, on my part, I have several important matters to impart to you."

      CHAPTER III.

      THE TWO HUNTERS.

       Table of Contents

      About five miles from the town is the village of San José de Guaymas, commonly known as the Rancho.

      This miserable pueblo is merely composed of a square of moderate size, intersected at right angles by tumbledown cabins, which are inhabited by Hiaqui Indians (a large number of whom hire themselves out annually at Guaymas to work as porters, carpenters, masons, &c), and all those nameless adventurers who have thronged to the shores of the Pacific since the discovery of the Californian plains.

      The road from Guaymas to San José runs through a parched and sandy plain, on which only a few nopales and stunted cactuses grow, whose withered branches are covered with dust, and produce the effect of white phantoms at night.

      The evening of the day on which our story commences, a horseman, folded to the eyes in a zarapé, was following this road, and proceeding in a gallop to the Rancho.

      The sky, of a dark azure, was studded with glistening stars; the moon, which had traversed one-third of her course, illumined the silent plain, and indefinitely prolonged the tall shadows of the trees on the naked earth.

      The horseman, doubtlessly anxious to

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