She can tell this, by hearing the hoof-strokes in different directions: all going gently, but evidently diverging from each other; while the riders are preserving a profound silence, ominous either of cunning or caution — perhaps of evil intent?

They may have discovered her position? The neighing of her steed has betrayed it? They may be riding to get round her — in order to advance from different sides, and make sure of her capture?

How is she to know that their intent is not hostile? She has enemies — one well remembered — Don Miguel Diaz. Besides, there are the Comanches — to be distrusted at all times, and now no longer en paz.

She begins to feel alarm. It has been long in arising; but the behaviour of the unseen horsemen is at least suspicious. Ordinary travellers would have continued along the trail. These are sneaking through the chapparal!

She looks around her, scanning her place of concealment. She examines, only to distrust it. The thin, feathery frondage of the mezquit will not screen her from an eye passing near. The hoof-strokes tell, that more than one cavalier is coming that way. She must soon be discovered.

At the thought, she strikes the spur into her horse’s side, and rides out from the thicket. Then, turning along the trail, she trots on into the open plain, that extends towards the Alamo.

Her intention is to go two or three hundred yards — beyond range of arrow, or bullet — then halt, until she can discover the character of those who are advancing — whether friends, or to be feared.

If the latter, she will trust to the speed of her gallant grey to carry her on to the protection of the “Tejanos.”

She does not make the intended halt. She is hindered by the horsemen, at that moment seen bursting forth from among the bushes, simultaneously with each other, and almost as soon as herself!

They spring out at different points; and, in converging lines, ride rapidly towards her!

A glance shows them to be men of bronze-coloured skins, and half naked bodies — with red paint on their faces, and scarlet feathers sticking up out of their hair.

“Los Indios!” mechanically mutters the Mexican, as, driving the rowels against the ribs of her steed, she goes off at full gallop for the alhuehueté.

A quick glance behind shows her she is pursued; though she knows it without that. The glance tells her more, — that the pursuit is close and earnest — so earnest that the Indians, contrary to their usual custom, do not yell!

Their silence speaks of a determination to capture her; and as if by a plan already preconcerted!

Hitherto she has had but little fear of an encounter with the red rovers of the prairie. For years have they been en paz — both with Texans and Mexicans; and the only danger to be dreaded from them was a little rudeness when under the influence of drink — just as a lady, in civilised life, may dislike upon a lonely road, to meet a crowd of “navigators,” who have been spending their day at the beer-house.

Isidora has passed through a peril of this kind, and remembers it — with less pain from the thought of the peril itself, than the ruin it has led to.

But her danger is different now. The peace is past. There is war upon the wind. Her pursuers are no longer intoxicated with the fire-water of their foes. They are thirsting for blood; and she flies to escape not only dishonour, but it may be death!

On over that open plain, with all the speed she can take out of her horse, — all that whip, and spur, and voice can accomplish!

She alone speaks. Her pursuers are voiceless — silent as spectres!

Only once does she glance behind. There are still but four of them; but four is too many against one — and that one a woman!

There is no hope, unless she can get within hail of the Texans.

She presses on for the alhuehueté.

The chased equestrian is within three hundred yards of the bluff, over which the tree towers. She once more glances behind her.

“Dios me amparé!” (God preserve me.)

God preserve her! She will be too late!

The foremost of her pursuers has lifted the lazo from his saddle horn: he is winding it over his head!

Before she can reach the head of the pass, the noose will be around her neck, and then —

And then, a sudden thought flashes into her mind — thought that promises escape from the threatened strangulation.

The cliff that overlooks the Alamo is nearer than the gorge, by which the creek bottom must be reached. She remembers that its crest is visible from the jacalé.

With a quick jerk upon the rein, she diverges from her course; and, instead of going on for the alhuehueté, she rides directly towards the bluff.

The change puzzles her pursuers — at the same time giving them gratification. They well know the “lay” of the land. They understand the trending of the cliff; and are now confident of a capture.

The leader takes a fresh hold of his lazo, to make more sure of the throw. He is only restrained from launching it, by the certainty she cannot escape.

“Chingaro!” mutters he to himself, “if she go much farther, she’ll be over the precipice!”

His reflection is false. She goes farther, but not over the precipice. With another quick pull upon the rein she has changed her course, and rides along the edge of it — so close as to attract the attention of the “Tejanos” below, and elicit from Zeb Stump that quaint exclamation — only heard upon extraordinary occasions —

“Geesus Geehosofat!”

As if in answer to the exclamation of the old hunter — or rather to the interrogatory with which he has followed it up — comes the cry of the strange equestrian who has shown herself on the cliff.

“Los Indios! Los Indios!”

No one who has spent three days in Southern Texas could mistake the meaning of that phrase — whatever his native tongue. It is the alarm cry which, for three hundred years, has been heard along three thousand miles of frontier, in three different languages — “Les Indiens! Los Indios! the Indians!”

Dull would be the ear, slow the intellect, that did not at once comprehend it, along with the sense of its associated danger.

To those who hear it at the jacalé it needs no translation. They know that she, who has given utterance to it, is pursued by Indians — as certain as if the fact had been announced in their own Saxon vernacular.

They have scarce time to translate it into this — even in thought — when the same voice a second time salutes their ears: — “Tejanos! Cavalleros! save me! save me! Los Indios! I am chased by a troop. They are behind me — close — close — ”

Her speech, though continued, is no longer heard distinctly. It is no longer required to explain what is passing upon the plain above.

She has cleared the first clump of tree tops by scarce twenty yards, when the leading savage shoots out from the same cover, and is seen, going in full gallop, against the clear sky.

Like a sling he spins the lazo loop around his head. So eager is he to throw it with sure aim, that he does not appear to take heed of what the fugitive has said — spoken as she went at full speed: for she made no stop, while calling out to the “Tejanos.” He may fancy it has been addressed to himself — a final appeal for mercy, uttered in a language he does not understand: for Isidora had spoken in English.

He is only undeceived, as the sharp crack of a rifle comes echoing out of the glen, — or perhaps a little sooner, as a stinging sensation in his wrist causes him to let go his lazo, and look wonderingly for the why!

He perceives a puff of sulphureous smoke rising from below.

A single glance is sufficient to cause a change in his tactics. In that glance he beholds a hundred men, with the gleam of a hundred gun barrels!