The sun had not yet climbed the hills on the east of the valley, when Harding set forth on his uncertain mission; and not one of the indolent people of the country was any where to be seen. The houses were all closed—no smoke issued from their rude chimneys—no sound or motion broke the stillness. Apart from its solitude, however, it was a beautiful scene. The haziness of the evening before was now gone—the valley was refreshed by the dew of the night; and the reviving influence of the cool morning seemed to have had its effect upon the inanimate as well as the animate. The slope of the hills on the north, where the first rays of the sun rested for hours before they touched the southern plateau, was dotted here and there by straggling goats, browsing listlessly upon the scanty vegetation; while lower down the valley and along the banks of the little river, numbers of cattle were either standing patiently around the inclosures or wandering slowly away toward the hills. The river, silvered by the morning light, wound thread-like down the valley toward the west, and was visible even to the turn of the mountain miles away, where it enters the labyrinth of ridges in the neighborhood of Parras. There were no waving fields of grain; but the hedges were all green and fresh; verdure was springing even at that season, where the ground had been cleared of its products; and the evergreen trees, and groves of oranges which dotted the land imparted an aspect of fertile beauty. The shadows of the rugged hills were traceable along the ground, so clearly that the line of separation could be followed through the fields—one-half in sunlight, half in shade—the former gradually encroaching on the latter. There were no birds to cheer the solitude with matin songs; but so peaceful was the scene that even their presence might have seemed unwelcome.

Harding gazed about him as he crossed the bridge as if in search of the road. There were two paths; one leading along the front of several ranchos, and apparently taking him directly to the point he wished to reach. The other led away to the left, sweeping round the fields and avoiding the houses, with the danger of meeting their inmates. It was the latter that the count directed him to take; but for some reason best known to himself he followed the first, without heeding De Marsiac’s hail, and soon found himself riding slowly between two straggling rows of neat cottages. There was no one astir, however, and he had ridden nearly the whole length of the avenue without seeing any signs of life—when, judging himself to be out of view of Embocadura, he turned his horse in among the elms, and sprang to the ground.

Throwing his bridle-rein over a limb, he first carefully examined his pistols, and then loosening his sword in the scabbard, stepped out from the cover and approached the nearest cottage. It was not until he had knocked several times that any answer was returned. Then, however, the door was suddenly swung open, and he was confronted by one of those specimens of Mexican youth, whose faces combine in so remarkable a degree, great beauty with an expression of wicked cunning. He was a boy—perhaps eighteen years of age, with a slender figure, but evidently very active, and unless an exception to his race, capable of enduring great fatigue and privation. His eyes were dark as night, small, and keen; his nose thin and straight, his lips rather pinched, but red and clearly cut. The rest of his features were appropriate to these, and his complexion was rather lighter than the general hue of his people. He held a lareat coiled in his hand, and his goat-skin shoes were armed at the heel with enormous spurs.

“Buenas dias, SeÑor,” said he, in a clear, sharp voice, stepping back at the same time, in mute invitation to Harding to enter.

The latter returned the salutation and asked—

“On whose lands are these ranchos?”

“On those of La SeÑora Eltorena,” answered the boy, promptly.

“How far is it to Anelo?” he inquired.

“Twelve leagues, sir.”

Harding reflected for a moment, and then beckoned the boy aside. The latter gazed at him inquiringly; but drawing the door to, followed him to the place where his horse was standing.

“You see that horse?” said he.

“I do,” answered the boy “and a very fine one he is, too.”

“Could you ride him to Anelo and back,^[2] to-day?”

“How much money could I get to do it?” asked the youth, eyeing the officer as if to measure his liberality.

“Twenty dollars,” Harding answered; “or, if you do not find me on your return, you may keep the horse.”

“Agreed,” said the boy, promptly. “I’ll set out now.”

Harding took a blank leaf from his pocket-book and wrote a note to the commandant of a detachment of Texan rangers, whom he knew to be then foraging at Anelo, and handed it to the boy.

“You must be back before midnight,” said he; “and you may ask for me at the hacienda. My name is Harding.”

“And mine is Eltorena,” said the youth. “I am six months older than Margarita, and entitled to the name by the same right.”

His eyes glistened as he spoke with an expression so devilish, that Harding was half inclined to take back the note and discharge him. But while reflecting upon the words of the boy, the latter, as if divining his half formed intention, suddenly put spurs to his horse’s flanks and bounded away. Harding watched him until he had crossed the river, and avoiding La Embocadura by a wide circuit, was fast disappearing among the groves to the east.

Concluding that if he had made a mistake it was now too late to amend it, he turned on his heel, and was about to pursue his way toward Piedritas on foot, when his attention was arrested by a voice pronouncing his name.

“SeÑor Harding, let me speak with you for a moment.”

He turned, and beheld a female in the very bloom of mature womanhood—tall, elegantly formed, and possessing a countenance of singular force and beauty. She was standing near the door at which he had knocked, and he had no difficulty in determining from the resemblance that she was the mother of his messenger. He advanced with the ordinary salutation, and followed her within the house.

“I am perfectly well acquainted,” she commenced abruptly, without offering him a seat, “with the object of your visit to the hacienda. You are here to wed the daughter of the woman who calls herself the SeÑora Eltorena—”

“Calls herself!” repeated Harding.

“And you are doubtless like other men,” she continued, without noticing the exclamation, “more attracted by the property than the bride. Now, I wish to warn you that this estate, with all that the late Colonel Eltorena owned, belongs to his son—and mine—the youth whom you have just sent away; and that I hold General Santa Anna’s pledge to see him righted as soon as the army marches this way. So, if you marry her, it is with your eyes open.”

“You are mistaken, madam,” said Harding, after a pause given to surprise; “I am here on no such errand: I am, on the contrary,” he added, with a smile, “only a humble ambassador, suing for the lady’s hand in the name of another, more potent individual.”

“In the name of the murdering thief, De Marsiac?” she exclaimed.

“Even so,” Harding replied, “the very same, without mistake.”

“You are a strange ambassador,” she said, with a laugh. “But,” she continued, resuming her somewhat wild manner, “I warn him through you, as I have done to his face, that the man who marries that woman’s daughter, must take her portionless!”

“In that case,” said Harding, with another smile, “I doubt whether the count will care to take her at all. But enlighten me about your son’s title—it may be important to my principal.”

Her story was not an uncommon one, though it took a long time in telling; for she dwelt with painful emphasis upon some parts, and talked so incoherently upon others, that Harding was confirmed in his suspicion that her mind was, upon that subject at least, quite unsettled. She had been induced by the late Colonel Eltorena to go to his house, as his wife, under a promise that the actual ceremony should be performed by the first priest who came from Monclova or Saltillo. It was a remote district in which they lived, and they might have to wait for months before the expected visit would be made; and knowing this, and at the earnest solicitation of her lover, she consented to an arrangement, which was not so uncommon as it should have been. Wherever the common law prevails as it does in the United States, this would have been a legal marriage; and she solemnly protested that she so considered it upon the representation of the colonel himself. Two or three priests had passed that way within a few months; but upon various pretexts the ceremony was postponed.

At last, after about six months, the Colonel went to the city of Mexico on a visit, and returned with a wife! “The woman,” said the narrator, “who now calls herself La SeÑora Eltorena!” She, the deceived and betrayed, was generously offered an asylum in the rancho, where she had lived ever since; and six months after her ejectment from the hacienda by “the proud English woman,” her son was born. For eighteen years she had been suing for her rights; but superior influence with the corrupt judges of that unhappy land had foiled all her efforts; and in the meantime, she had lived in plain view of the hacienda, determined never to lose sight of her object, until she saw her son in possession. She had never been inside of its walls: “but,” said she, “I will be there—and soon! May God give me revenge upon the sorceress, who stole away my rights!”

“It is a very hard case,” said Harding, when she had finished, “but I fear like many other wrongs, it has no remedy.”

“There is one remedy,” said she, significantly, “when all others fail.” And drawing aside the end of her mantilla, she disclosed the hilt of a long, keen dagger. She drew it forth, ran her finger along its edge, smiled faintly, and replaced it in its sheath.

“Well, well,” said Harding, turning away, “I am warned at all events, and will take care that the count is enlightened, also. I must speed upon my mission. Good morning.”

She made no reply, and he passed out, taking his way toward the hacienda, which lay in view, about a mile distant. Turning to the right, he soon reached the bank of the river, and followed its rapid but even current, which ran sparkling beneath the court-yard wall. It was yet quite early; and as he reached the front of the mansion, his fear, that as yet no one would be astir, was confirmed. Returning again to the margin of the stream, he commenced pacing up and down the sward under a row of elms, with the intention of awaiting the rising of the family. He had made but two or three turns, however, and had halted, gazing about upon the still morning scene, when he thought he observed something like drapery pass across the arches in the wall, through which the river entered the inclosure. He advanced somewhat closer, and could distinctly see a pair of small feet tripping across the river on a footway made by placing large stones a step apart from bank to bank. He could not doubt that it was Margarita; but without going again to the front of the house, he knew of no means of ingress.

Casting his glance up and down the stream, to his delight, he discovered a small boat moored to the bank, and slowly swinging in the current. A moment sufficed to untie the rope which bound it, and in another, he was seated on its light planks, rapidly floating toward the arched passage. The waters, raised by the rains of the preceding day, left but scanty room beneath the masonry; but lying down in the bottom of the boat, and guiding her with his hands, he soon had the satisfaction to emerge within the inclosure. On rising again, he found himself between an extensive garden on one side and the offices of the mansion on the other. The former seemed to be a neglected wilderness of trees, and flowering plants and vines, but on reaching the footway over which the feet had passed, he discovered an opening to the labyrinth, in a broad, graveled walk, which wound away between rows of shrubbery, sparkling in the morning sunlight, and lost itself in the distance.

Turning the boat broadside against the stones, to prevent its floating away, he sprang to the bank and walked rapidly down the avenue. He discovered neither form nor sign of life for several minutes; but as he turned from the main walk into a smaller, which led away to the left, he saw directly before him, walking slowly toward the place where he stood, a young girl whose exquisite beauty well justified his eagerness. She was slightly above the medium height, slender, but well-proportioned, with a carriage erect and graceful. Her rich, brown hair was braided in masses over a forehead of the purest white, and drawn back loosely so as almost to hang upon her round, snowy neck. Her eyes were of the same color with her hair—a rich, dark brown; and their expression, though somewhat pensive, was yet sparkling and clear. A nose of the true Grecian model, a round, though not full chin, a small mouth with thin, curling lips, and cheeks now tinged by exercise in the cool morning air, completed a face which might well have attracted a man of less taste than the Count De Marsiac. To complete the picture, she had small, beautiful feet, such as a sultana might have envied; and her perfect, white hands, which now lay folded together in front, might have been a model for a sculptor. She wore a thin morning dress of the purest white, and as she walked slowly and unconsciously, it waved like gossamer about her person—revealing, perhaps, too much of its contour to please our northern prejudices, but still adding to its exquisite attraction.

Harding’s circumstances were so peculiar, that he was embarrassed for a moment, and could not determine how to meet her. She had not yet seen him, and acting upon the impulse of perplexity, he stepped within the cover of the shrubbery, and allowed her to pass without speaking. She went but a few steps, however, before he called—

“Margarita!”

She started at his voice, but turned and at once advanced to meet him. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, too, as she did so, and the hand she extended to him trembled from emotion. Harding could not know her feelings, and he had reason to doubt her truth; but, though he could not tell what it was, there was something in her look and manner as she met him which made him forget all suspicion. He took her hand in one of his, and placing the other about her waist, drew her to him, and—the love of a former time was renewed!

“We meet once more,” he whispered; it was all he could say.

“I feared we were parted forever,” she said, disengaging herself from his embrace, but still leaning on his arm.

“I thought you had forgotten me,” continued Harding.

“I am not sure but I ought to have done so,” she replied, with a smile which revealed how little she meant what she said. “But how is it that you are here?”

“I had forgotten,” answered he; “I am here as an envoy from another, to ask your hand in marriage!”

“You!” she exclaimed, drawing away from him. “From whom?”

“From his highness,” answered Harding, laughingly detaining her, “Eugene Raoul, Count De Marsiac!”

She gazed at him in surprise for a few moments; and then, catching the light of his smile, folded her hands upon his shoulder, looked archly into his eyes and said—

“If the envoy does not deem my hand a prize high enough to justify his preferring a claim on his own behalf. I must even listen to the overtures of his sovereign.”

“Then I must deliver my credentials,” said Harding, and drawing her to him, he kissed her upon both cheeks. “And now,” he continued, taking her hand, “my mission is ended; and in my own proper character I claim this hand as my own. Is it mine?”

“Forever,” she answered, and he was about to resume his “credentials,” when a rustling among the bushes attracted his attention; and before Margarita could disengage herself, Lieutenant Grant confronted them, and leveled a pistol at Harding’s breast!

“Traitor!” he shouted furiously; “you shall pay for this with your life!”

Margarita screamed loudly, and threw herself in front of her lover; but before Grant was aware of his intention, Harding drew his sword, and passing around her, threw himself upon him. He knocked the pistol into the air just as it exploded; and the next instant Grant was stretched upon the sward, bleeding profusely from a wound in the head given by the back of Harding’s sword! The latter drew the remaining pistol from the sash of the fallen lieutenant, and kneeling beside him raised him from the ground on his arm.

“Bring some water from the river,” he said to Margarita.

But as he looked up, he perceived that the party had been increased by one! A tall, handsome woman, of perhaps thirty-six, stood gazing sternly on the scene, while Margarita shrank back abashed. She had a face once evidently distinguished for its proud beauty, but now remarkable chiefly for the masculine strength of its expression. Her eye was of that deep blue, which oftener indicates coldness than tenderness; and her lips, now compressed and white, were full of fierce resolution. It was plain that a sneer was more natural to her than a smile, anger than affection. Her brow was high but narrow, and her nose a thin aquiline. It was not at all strange that she had been the dominant spirit in Colonel Eltorena’s household.

“What is this?” she commenced, in a voice of powerful compass, but no sweetness. “And who are you, sir, who dare to invade my private garden to brawl with my guests?”

“You know me full well, madam,” said Harding, irritated by her tone, “and I intend that you shall know me better. But this is no time to instruct you. Margarita, will you bring some water from the river?”

Margarita looked doubtfully at her mother; but at a wave of her hand, ran away toward the river. As she disappeared, her mother advanced closer to Harding, who was endeavoring to resuscitate Grant, and said—

“You are here, I suppose, sir, for the purpose of attempting to interfere with my domestic arrangements; but let me assure you that you shall hang to one of these trees rather than be even admitted within the house!”

“Your threats are brave enough, at all events,” said Harding, with a smile. “But do you not think it would better become a woman to assist me in a duty of humanity?”

“What does she know of humanity?” demanded a sharp female voice, close to the group; and on turning his head Harding saw the same woman, whose story of deception and betrayal had so much interested him two hours before.

“What do you here?” demanded the seÑora, with one of those scowling looks for which her face seemed made. “Must I have you, too, thrust from my gate!”

“Your gate!” hissed the woman, advancing nearer to the object of her hatred, and flashing insane glances from those wild, haggard eyes. “Your gate! Impostor, witch, begone! Must I have you thrust from my gate?”

There is something very appalling in the glance of an eye touched with insanity; and the Englishwoman shrunk from it, if not in fear, at least in dread. But, at the same moment, she saw Margarita returning with the water, and called to her—

“Go back, my daughter, and send some of the men here.”

“To thrust me forth from your gate, I suppose,” said the woman, advancing still closer, and fumbling with her right hand under the end of her mantilla.

“Yes,” said the seÑora fiercely; “will you go without violence?”

“No!” the maniac almost screamed. “No!” she repeated; and with the word, she suddenly drew her hand from its concealment, flourishing the dagger which she had shown Harding, and with a bound like that of a tiger, sprang upon her enemy and buried the steel in her heart! Harding dropped Grant, and rushed forward to prevent another blow, but his interference was too late! The seÑora screamed wildly, and with a convulsive gasp fell to the ground, quite dead!

Harding seized the arm of the murderess and easily wrested the dagger from her hand. Indeed, she made no resistance—the reaction of her excitement sapped away her strength; and, submitting without a word to all that Harding did, she seemed intent only upon the now fast stiffening corpse which lay before her.

“I am sorry for her,” she murmured; “I am sorry for her—but she would have it, and I cannot bring her to life.”

She burst into tears, and threw herself to the ground—uttering the most terrible imprecations of God’s vengeance upon herself, mingled with curses of the late Colonel Eltorena, and incoherent references to his perfidy. Harding was at a loss how to act—so strangely embarrassing was the wild scene in which he found himself.

The question was soon decided for him. He heard the approach of several armed men, walking with quick steps along the path, and, the next moment, Count De Marsiac suddenly entered the little area.

“Villain!” he exclaimed, striding toward Harding; “you have deceived me, and shall die the death!”

“Back, sir!” shouted the lieutenant fiercely, presenting the point of his sword. “If there is a greater villain than yourself here, the devil must be present in person!”

The count recoiled from the blade, and furiously ordered his men to fire upon the audacious American; but two of them, who had been busied with Grant, now sprang upon him from behind, and, after a sharp struggle, overpowered and bound him.

“I will dispose of you after awhile,” said De Marsiac, when he saw him hors du combat. “Leave him where he is,” he added to his men; and proceeding to give his orders with clearness and rapidity, the scene was soon broken up. Grant was restored to consciousness and again made a prisoner; the body of the seÑora was removed by the women summoned for the purpose, the murderess was taken into custody, and the whole party repaired to the house. Of this, De Marsiac at once took possession as if he were already its master; Margarita was confined to her own chamber, and Harding was thrust into a small, dingy room, and left alone, with those unpleasant companions, his own thoughts.

The following extract from the letter of the author of the Captive Rivals, will account for the delay in finishing this story in the December number.—Ed. Graham.