A sigh of regret escaped the company as the dance ceased. Blanch turned to speak to Don Felipe, but he was no longer by her side—he had vanished. The musicians struck up a waltz. It was now the turn of the guests to dance if they chose; a privilege of which they were not slow to avail themselves.

Captain Forest crossed over to where Chiquita sat, resting after the exertion of the dance.

"I'm sure you've had enough dancing this evening, SeÑorita," he said, handing her her fan. "Let us go into the garden; it's quieter there." His words filled her with a tumult of emotion. She realized that the moment for which she had been waiting had arrived. She looked up at him without replying, then rose from her seat, and the two quietly left the patio, disappearing among the shrubbery and the shadows.

Neither spoke. Each guessed the other's thoughts, and they walked on in silence until they came to an open circular space surrounded by trees and flooded by moonlight, where, as if moved by a common impulse, they halted. Without a word he turned and silently folded her in his arms.

"Jack—" she murmured.

"Chiquita mia," he said at length, gazing down into her upturned face where the dusk and the moon-fire met and blended in a radiance of unearthly beauty, "is it not wonderful that, all unwittingly and unconscious of each other's existence, we have been brought together from the ends of the earth?" She was about to reply when a voice, close at hand, cut her short. It was Don Felipe's.

"A pretty sentiment, Captain Forest," he said, stepping out into the light before them. "I wish I might congratulate you, but you will never marry her."

"How dare you!" cried the Captain furiously, advancing toward him with flushed face and clenched hands. Chiquita started violently at the sound of Don Felipe's voice. The apprehension of an impending catastrophe that had oppressed her during the day, but which she had forgotten during the excitement of the dance, again took possession of her.

"I apologize most humbly for intruding on your privacy," answered Don Felipe, meeting the Captain's gaze unflinchingly, "but as one who wishes you well, I could not stand quietly by and see a man like you cunningly tricked by this woman."

"What do you mean?" asked the Captain, his eyes blazing and his voice almost beyond control.

"Chance or fortune, which ever you may choose to call it, has recently placed certain information in my possession which will entirely preclude any thought on your part of marrying her." What can he mean, Chiquita asked herself. She had expected an attack on the Captain and was prepared for it, but this—what was it?

"You perhaps already know," continued Don Felipe coolly, "that this woman and I were once betrothed to one another, but had I at that time known what I now know of her, such a thing as a betrothal would have been out of the question."

"And this information?" interrogated the Captain.

"It is very simple, Captain Forest," replied Don Felipe, slowly and firmly. "The SeÑorita Chiquita is—the mother of a child."

"The mother of a child?" cried Chiquita in astonishment. "You lie!" His words were like a blow in the face to the Captain. For an instant the world seemed to swim before his eyes, but only for an instant. Had he rushed upon Don Felipe then and there as he felt impelled, it would have been what the latter most wished him to do. He would have then had sufficient provocation to kill him on the spot. But a lion never springs before he has taken the measure of his leap.

"Don Felipe Ramirez," said Captain Forest at length, in a hoarse, half-audible voice, "unless you give me instant proof of what you say, either you or I shall never leave this place alive! Understand," he continued, "that when I ask you for proof, it is not because I doubt this woman, but that your life and mine are at stake."

"Well spoken, Captain Forest," returned Don Felipe. "'Tis the answer I expected; the utterance of a gentleman, a Caballero! You shall have the proof you desire—the living proof, Captain Forest," he added with emphasis.

"Proof?" exclaimed Chiquita in amazement. "Are you bereft of your senses, Don Felipe Ramirez?"

"Ah! you have played your part well these many years, SeÑorita. It is now my turn to cut the cards. If you will return to the patio—" he continued, turning to the Captain.

"Why not here?" asked the latter.

"Because the proof which you desire awaits you there." The Captain was about to protest further, when Chiquita interposed.

"Come!" she said, and without further words, turned and silently led the way back to the patio followed by Don Felipe and the Captain, the latter scarcely able to control his desire to seize Don Felipe by the throat and choke the breath out of his body. She knew that Don Felipe had laid a most ingenious trap for her; that was to be expected. But what form it would take, she was at a loss to divine until they reached the patio; then it all came over her at once. She was to be publicly accused. Don Felipe was capable of that, and she shuddered as she pictured to herself the scene it would be certain to create.

There was a pause in the dancing. The musicians were playing an interlude, and as the three reËntered the patio, the eyes of all present immediately became centered upon them. Just opposite to where they halted sat Blanch and Padre Antonio, conversing together.

"I would much prefer to spare you a public humiliation," said Don Felipe, addressing the Captain in a low tone. "It is not too late. But if you still insist on having the proof at this time—"

"The proof by all means!" exclaimed Chiquita with out giving the Captain time to answer, her eyes blazing with indignation.

"Very well, since you insist," replied Don Felipe, glancing for an instant in the direction of Blanch. As he did so, both the Captain and Chiquita noticed that she let fall, as if by accident, the pink rose she held in her hand. Instantly Don Felipe turned and clapped his hands, whereupon, an old Indian woman, bowed with age and supporting herself with a stick, and accompanied by a pretty little Indian girl of five or six years of age, emerged from one of the doors of the house and paused, bewildered by the unusual sight that greeted their eyes; the lights and flowers, the music and gayly dressed men and women. Chiquita started and uttered a low cry as her gaze fell upon the old woman and the child. Captain Forest noted the ashen hue of her face and felt her hand tremble as she involuntarily clutched at his arm as if for support. Then she suddenly seemed to recover her composure.

"That?" she exclaimed, and began to laugh, almost hysterically. It was evident to the others that something unusual had occurred. The music suddenly ceased, and save for the murmur of the fountain in the center of the court, not a sound was to be heard. All eyes were now turned upon the old woman and the child who still stood silent and motionless, gazing in bewilderment upon the strange scene before them. Suddenly the child uttered a cry of joy.

"Madre! Madre mia!" she cried, and running across the court, flung herself into Chiquita's arms. Then it was that the latter grasped the full significance and gravity of the situation. What could have been more compromising and humiliating for her?

"Marieta, niÑa mia!" she exclaimed, stooping and kissing the child, without realizing that her words and action only compromised her the more.

"Is this the beautiful garden you told me of, Mother—which you said you would one day take me to see?" asked the child, gazing delightedly about her.

"Yes, yes, cara mia!" she answered hastily, holding the child close to her. Instinctively the others began to draw near the little group.

"What brings you here, Juana?" she asked sternly of the old woman who by this time had crossed the court and stood before her, leaning on her stick.

"They said you sent for us, SeÑorita, and compelled us to come."

"I never sent for you!" answered Chiquita.

"Do you wish for further proof?" asked Don Felipe, addressing the Captain. "You see, the child found no difficulty in recognizing its mother," he added sarcastically.

"'Tis a lie!" cried Chiquita. Captain Forest was speechless, stunned. As for Don Felipe, he only laughed at Chiquita's impotent rage.

"Between five and six years ago," he began, "the SeÑorita and one Joaquin Flores brought this child late one night to the Indian pueblo, Onava, and placed it in charge of this woman with whom it has lived ever since. Is it not so?" he asked, turning to the old Indian woman.

"It is, SeÑor," she answered in confusion.

"And has not the SeÑorita visited the child each month and provided for its wants ever since the day it was given into your charge?" Again the old woman answered in the affirmative. "And has not the child," continued Don Felipe, "always called her mother ever since it has been able to speak, and have you not always thought her to be its mother?" The old woman hesitated and glanced nervously about her as though seeking a way of escape.

"Speak, Juana!" commanded Don Felipe sharply. "Onava lies within my domain. Unless you speak the truth, I'll have you and the rest of your family driven to the desert to starve."

"It is so, SeÑor!" sobbed the old woman, thoroughly frightened by Don Felipe's threat, yet not daring to raise her eyes to those of Chiquita.

"You now know why the SeÑorita Chiquita danced in public during the Fiesta. It was to provide for the wants of her child," he added with a sneer.

"I can't believe it!" exclaimed Captain Forest contemptuously, breaking the long silence he had preserved. "The introduction of this child and woman doesn't prove anything that I can see."

"Every Indian in the village," interrupted Don Felipe, "will substantiate what you have just heard. Why, the SeÑorita herself taught this child to call her mother. But there are still other things which you shall learn in due time."

"Chiquita," said the Captain without heeding Don Felipe's words, "speak! I know you can explain." She glanced up at him for a moment and then cast her eyes down at the child.

"I must first send to La Jara for Joaquin and Manuelita Flores," she answered. "When they come, I shall be able to tell something definite concerning this child."

"You can spare yourself the trouble," broke in Don Felipe. "They are both dead."

"Dead?" she cried, starting violently. "Joaquin and Manuelita dead?"

"Their bodies, together with those of their horses and wagon, were discovered early this morning at the foot of the mesa which lies between here and La Jara, directly below the point where the road winds along the rim of the cliff. Doubtless their horses became frightened in the dark and jumped over the cliff before they could save themselves."

Chiquita uttered a low cry. "You've done your work well, Don Felipe Ramirez," she said at length, suddenly straightening and stiffening as she faced him, the expression on her face changing to one of hatred and contempt.

"It was no easy task to run you to earth, I'll admit," he retorted with the same sneering look of triumph on his countenance.

The only two persons upon whom she could rely, who could corroborate what she had to say concerning the child, were dead. No, there was one other, a man, but he too was gone—no one knew where. She saw the hopelessness of her plight. Nothing she could say or do could alter the opinion of the world toward her. She might continue to deny the charge, protest her innocence, accuse others, but to what avail? Without the actual proof, all must believe that which they were so ready and willing to believe. Had not the child recognized her, called her mother before the world? Even though the charge might never be actually proven, and Captain Forest refuse to believe it, there would always be this thing between them which she could never explain satisfactorily. It was not natural to suppose that he could possibly forget it or continue to believe in her protestations of innocence without the corroboration of others. The hour must surely come in which he would be assailed by doubts. She felt she had lost him, and with the knowledge of her failure, was seized with a sickening sensation and an acute pain at the heart. A misty veil rose between her and the world and she swayed unsteadily as though about to fall. She knew she must not faint. She drew her hand across her eyes, then, putting all her remaining strength into the effort, she slowly drew herself up.

Strange, that she and Don Felipe should have been created to become the nemesis of one another! The child, awed by the silence and grave faces of the bystanders, instinctively divined that there was something wrong between her and them, and clung mutely to Chiquita's skirt, a frightened look on her face.

Chiquita, meanwhile, stood gazing straight out before her, her head slightly inclined forwards, her face white and set, her heart burning with shame. It was not so much the question of guilt or innocence that affected her now, but the shame of it all. What must the Americans think of her? She felt the burning, searching gaze of those about her and the joy they experienced at her discomfiture. Never had she been at a loss to know which way to turn to extricate herself from a difficulty; but now, how helpless she was. She nervously tapped the palm of her left hand with her fan, vainly racking her brain in an effort to find a solution. Dick, who had been watching her narrowly the while, saw a strange light begin to play in her eyes in which he read Don Felipe's death as plainly as though it were written across the heavens in letters of flame.

"Chiquita, you must say something," said Captain Forest. "I tell you again, I don't believe it, but for your own sake—speak!"

"Yes, my child, speak!" entreated Padre Antonio, stepping before her. "Can't you see your silence is condemning you?" She looked up at him and saw that his face was ashen, colorless like the Captain's—that he seemed to have suddenly aged. Notwithstanding, there was the same kindly expression in his eyes she had always known, and she felt that, even though the world refused to believe in her, he might; he might even forgive her. She saw in her present humiliation and shame, a direct punishment for the betrayal of the Padre's confidence. Had she confided her secret to him, this could not have come upon her. Now, however, it was too late. She had no right to expect sympathy even from him.

"Chiquita, for the last time, I ask you to speak!" pleaded Captain Forest, racked between doubt and belief in the woman he loved. Just then, little Marieta began to cry.

"Madre, madre!" she gasped between her sobs. "I'm afraid of these people. Take me away—take me home again!"

"Be not afraid, my little one, they cannot harm you," she answered, drawing the child closer to her and laying one hand on its shoulder. Another embarrassing silence, broken only by the low sobs of Marieta, followed.

"Chiquita," demanded Padre Antonio at length, "has this child the right to call you mother?" There was a stern ring in his voice and she knew her last moment of grace had come; that it was useless to hesitate longer. She glanced at the Captain, then at the Padre and then down at the pretty, tear-stained face of the clinging child. Again she felt that peculiar pain at the heart and thought she was going to faint as she struggled with herself between honor, her love and respect for Captain Forest and Padre Antonio and her devotion to the child whose life, she knew, depended upon her answer. Up to that moment she had been completely at a loss to know what to say or how to act, but that invisible something which until then had deprived her of speech, now seemed to impel her to answer in the affirmative.

It was the supreme moment of her life. After all the years she could not abandon the child now; the woman in her forbade it. She must go on to the end. Again she glanced down at Marieta, and then raising her head and looking into Padre Antonio's eyes, said quietly: "Yes, she has that right."

"It's not true; I don't believe it!" cried Captain Forest in a tone in which was expressed all the shame and disgust he experienced on seeing the woman he loved dragged into the mire before his eyes.

"Captain Forest, you have heard the truth," answered Chiquita.

"Then there is nothing further to be said!" broke in Padre Antonio who was anxious to end a scene that was growing more painful each moment. Without a word, the Captain whirled on his heel and walked toward the garden. Clearly, the effects of the drop of poison instilled so adroitly into their lives by Don Felipe were beginning to be felt.

It is doubtful whether Blanch would have given Don Felipe the signal could she have foreseen the consequences. Her rival could have been exposed without being publicly humiliated. Nevertheless, an ineffable joy filled her soul. She knew now that Jack either must return to her, or he would never marry. His sensitive, overwrought mind frenzied and made desperate by despair might even drive him to kill himself in the end, but what did it really matter so long as no other woman possessed him?

Don Felipe fairly reveled in his revenge and took no pains to conceal it. It was the sweetest moment of his life. At last she too knew what it was to be struck to earth, to lie prone with one's face in the dust, the jeers of the world ringing in her ears. Of a truth, to quote Dick's words, "Had the devil raked hell with a fine-tooth comb, he could not have produced a more accomplished villain than Don Felipe Ramirez."