THE PARTING SUPPER.

When Arthur Gordon issued out into the quiet court-yard, he found the Partisan tranquilly superintending the preparations of the dragoons, who had already lighted a fire near the fountain and having rubbed down their chargers which were busy about better provender than they had enjoyed for many a day, were now making their arrangements for the night.

The Partisan, having seen the baggage all packed securely, went back and entered the rancho, and crossing over to Marguerita asked her to guard Julia as she would a sister.

"I will guard her as my sister; as my life," she answered. "No harm shall come to her, save through my life. You shall find her safe when you return, or you shall find us together."

"I know it," he said, gloomily. "I know it, Marguerita. Yet, I think we shall never meet again," he added, in a whisper.

"We shall—we shall meet again!" she exclaimed, almost triumphantly. "If not on earth—there, there, where there are no wars, and no enemies—where we shall part no more forever!"

"Amen!" replied Pierrie.

Two hours later, and the horse-tramps of the dragoons had died away in the distance, and Julia had wept herself into forgetfulness of her sorrows on the bosom of Marguerita.

The morning which followed the departure of Pierre Delacroix and his companions from the ruined rancho, dawned as serene and gentle as the waking of a new-born child.

The song of birds and the distant water-fall hailed Julia, as she awoke from her slumbers; and the soft, melancholy singing of Marguerita suddenly reminded her where she was.

A moment afterwards the song ceased, the door flew open, and Marguerita entered, leaving several choice and dainty eatables, and addressed her guest:

"You must pardon me, lady, if I perform these little offices myself, and intrude my services upon you, for the fortunes of war have imposed the task of such light labours on me, happier than many of my sisters, who are reduced to utter penury and ruin."

"Pardon me, rather, dear Marguerita—for so you must let me call you—that I permit you thus to wait on one, who is so far in every way beneath you. Except," she added, with a winning smile, "that in all times and countries the character of a suppliant has been invested with a sort of mournful dignity."

"Is it so, lady?—is it so, indeed?" cried Marguerita, half eagerly, half-sorrowfully.

"Julia! Julia!" she cried, imploringly, "will you call me Julia? I called you Marguerita, dear, dear Marguerita."

"Julia—dear Julia, then," replied the Spanish girl, soothingly; "believe me, I thought not to wound you, but my heart bleeds, my heart burns when I think of my country and her wrongs. Hark!" she exclaimed in a low whisper, "heard you that?"

"Heard I what?" cried Julia, terrified beyond expression at the sudden change in her tone, manner, and countenance; "I hear nothing but the wind, the birds, the water!"

"There—there again!" said the other, standing erect and motionless, with her finger upraised, her head thrown a little backward, her lips apart, her nostrils dilated, her eyes fixed on vacancy. "There—there it is again—they are coming!"

An instant afterwards the jingling of spurs and the clang of a steel scabbard on the stone pavement of the outer room was heard approaching the door quickly.

Then Marguerita's face lightened for a moment as she sprang to meet the new comer.

"It is Juan!" she cried, "it is my brother, and thanks be to God, alone!"

The door flew open, and on the threshold stood the young guerilla. It was the form of the Antinuous, without his effeminacy—it was the head of the conquering Bacchus, without the sensuality. A specimen more perfect of young manhood never walked the earth.

"Madre de Dios, who is this?" he asked.

"Brother! Juan! brother!" exclaimed Marguerita, seizing him in her arms, and striving to embrace him.

"What have you done, mad girl? Who is this, I say, who is this, Marguerita?"

"A suppliant, a fugitive, a friend, a sister, a sister of the Partisan—of Pedro, my brother, Pedro el Salvador."

"An American," he said, slowly, his brow gradually uniting into a black frown, as he uttered the word, and his eye growing lurid with a concentrated fire, then laying his hand on the hilt of his stiletto, he murmured through his set teeth, "She must die."

"Never, no! for your life! for your soul! for the name of God! for the most holy virgin! no, brother, no; not while I live! He brought her here. He that preserved your life and my honour. He asked me to protect her! and I swore by my mother's soul; and now I swear it!"

"Fool!" he almost shouted in his rage, as he thrust her aside violently, "Carrera will be here within ten minutes, and all our lives are forfeit by your treason."

"We can conceal her. In the niche, you know, in the niche. Sanchez and Estefania and Francisco need but a hint to make them mute as statues. We can conceal her, brother, and be saved."

"He knows that they came hither. We have traced their hoof-tracks to the very gate. A wounded soldier saw them leave their hiding-place, and we met Carrera on their track. I know not how we failed to meet them."

"Where is Estefania?"

"In arrest."

"And Francisco?"

"And he likewise."

"Then we are saved."

"How saved?"

"Go! Tell them, you, to swear that the dragoons forced our hospitality by menace, which we could not resist. They were five strong—young men, well armed. What could we do?"

"It may save us—who knows?"

"It will save us! Do it. Away! Every moment is a life!"

Then, as he left the room in haste, she sprang up on the bed, touched a spring in the wall, and the back of the shallow niche in which the crucifix stood flew open, turning outward on a hinge, disclosing a small circular closet, lighted by a small air-hole, and containing a low stone bench, wrought in the wall.

"Up, up!" she exclaimed, shaking Julia sharply by the arm.

And aroused from her prostration by the dreadful emergency, and nerved by the firmness of the Spanish maiden, Julia did rise, pale as a ghost, but calm and firm, and kissed and blessed her hostess, and mounted into the small hiding place, and drew the secret door close after her.

Nearer and nearer came the bugle horn, and then the clang of hoofs, the orders of the officers, the din of the men dismounting, and the clash and clatter of their arms.

Hurriedly, in the meantime, had Marguerita thrust aside the few articles of Julia's clothing which were scattered about the room, but when she thought that all was safe, and the steps of the officers were heard in the outer hall, she sat down quietly to her embroidery, and took up again her mournful song, and was singing tranquilly and unconcernedly, when her brother again entered the apartment.