The Lone Ranch | Page 9

shots, with a distant murmur
of voices, in the direction of the town. From the azolea, to which she
had ascended, she could note these noises more distinctly, but fancied
them to be salutes, vivas, and cheers. Still, there was nothing much in
that. It might be some jubilation of the soldiery at the ordinary evening
parade; and, remembering that the day was a fiesta, she thought less of
it.
But, as night drew down, and her brother had not returned, she began to
feel some slight apprehension. He had promised to be back for a dinner
that was long since due--a repast she had herself prepared, more
sumptuous than common on account of the saint's day. This was it that
elicited the anxious self-asked interrogatories.
After giving utterance to them, she paced backward and forward; now
standing in the portal and gazing along the road; now returning to the
sola de comida, to look upon the table, with cloth spread, wines
decantered, fruits and flowers on the epergne--all but the dishes that
waited serving till Valerian should show himself.
To look on something besides--a portrait that hung upon the wall,
underneath her own. It was a small thing--a mere photographic
carte-de-visite. But it was the likeness of one who had a large place in
her brother's heart, if not in her own. In hers, how could it? It was the
photograph of a man she had never seen--Frank Hamersley. He had left
it with Colonel Miranda, as a souvenir of their short but friendly
intercourse.
Did Colonel Miranda's sister regard it in that light? She could not in
any other. Still, as she gazed upon it, a thought was passing through her
mind somewhat different from a sentiment of simple friendship. Her
brother had told her all--the circumstances that led to his acquaintance
with Hamersley; of the duel, and in what a knightly manner the

Kentuckian had carried himself; adding his own commentaries in a
very flattering fashion. This, of itself, had been enough to pique
curiosity in a young girl, just escaped from her convent school; but
added to the outward semblance of the stranger, by the sun made
lustrous--so lustrous inwardly--Adela Miranda was moved by
something more than curiosity. As she stood regarding the likeness of
Frank Hamersley she felt very much as he had done looking at hers--in
love with one only known by portrait and repute.
In such there is nothing strange nor new. Many a reader of this tale
could speak of a similar experience.
While gazing on the carte-de-visite she was roused from the sweet
reverie it had called up by hearing footsteps outside. Someone coming
in through the saggan.
"Valerian at last!"
The steps sounded as if the man making them were in a hurry. So
should her brother be, having so long delayed his return.
She glided out to meet him with an interrogatory on her lips.
"Valerian?"--this suddenly changing to the exclamation, "Madre de
Dios! 'Tis not my brother!"
It was not, but a man pale and breathless--a peon of the
establishment--who, on seeing her, gasped out,--
"Senorita! I bring sad news. There's been a mutiny at the cuartel--a
pronunciamento. The rebels have had it all their own way, and I am
sorry to tell you that the colonel, your brother--"
"What of him? Speak! Is he--"
"Not killed, nina; only wounded, and a prisoner."
Adela Miranda did not swoon nor faint. She was not of the nervous
kind. Nurtured amid dangers, most of her life accustomed to alarms

from Indian incursions, as well as revolutionary risings, she remained
calm.
She dispatched messengers to the town, secretly, one after another; and,
while awaiting their reports, knelt before an image of the Virgin, and
prayed.
Up till midnight her couriers went, and came. Then one who was more
than a messenger--her brother himself!
As already reported to her, he was wounded, and came accompanied by
the surgeon of the garrison, a friend. They arrived at the house in hot
haste, as if pursued.
And they were so, as she soon after learnt.
There was just time for Colonel Miranda to select the most cherished of
his penates; pack them on a recua of mules, then mount, and make
away.
They had scarce cleared the premises when the myrmidons of the new
commandant, led by the man himself, rode up and took possession of
the place.
By this time, and by good luck, the ruffian was intoxicated--so drunk
he could scarce comprehend what was passing around him. It seemed
like a dream to him to be told that Colonel Miranda had got clear away;
a more horrid one to hear that she whom he designed for a victim had
escaped from his clutches.
When morning dawned, and in soberer mood he listened to the