A keener pang proceeds from something else she has heard: that this peerless maiden has been seen in the company of Maurice Gerald. There is no fresh jealousy inspired by the news of the brother’s death — only the old unpleasantness for the moment revived.

The feeling soon gives place to the ordinary indifference felt for the fate of those with whom we have no acquaintance.

Some hours later, and this indifference becomes changed to a painful interest; in short, an apprehension. There are fresh reports about the murder. It has been committed, not by Comanches; but by a white man — by Maurice the mustanger!

There are no Indians near.

This later edition of “novedades,” while tranquilising Don Silvio’s servants, has the contrary effect upon his niece. She cannot rest under the rumour; and half-an-hour afterwards, she is seen reining up her horse in front of the village hotel.

For some weeks, with motive unknown, she has been devoting herself to the study of La lengua Americana. Her vocabulary of English words, still scanty, is sufficient for her present purpose; which is to acquire information, not about the murder, but the man accused of committing it.

The landlord, knowing who she is, answers her inquiries with obsequious politeness.

She learns that Maurice Gerald is no longer his guest, with “full particulars of the murder,” so far as known.

With a sad heart she rides back to the Hacienda Martinez. On reaching the house, she finds its tranquillity again disturbed. The new cause of excitement might have been deemed ludicrous; though it is not so regarded by the superstitious peons. A rare rumour has reached the place. A man without a head — un hombre descabezado — has been seen riding about the plains, somewhere near the Rio Nueces!

Despite its apparent absurdity, there can be no doubting the correctness of the report. It is rife throughout the settlement. But there is still surer confirmation of it. A party of Don Silvio’s own people — herdsmen out in search of strayed cattle — have seen the cavallero descabezado; and, desisting from their search, had ridden away from him, as they would have done from the devil!

The vaqueros — there are three of them — are all ready to swear to the account given. But their scared looks furnish a more trustworthy evidence of its truthfulness.

The sun goes down upon a congeries of frightful rumours. Neither these nor the protestations of Don Silvio and his sister can prevent their capricious niece from carrying out a resolution she seems suddenly to have formed — which is, to ride back to the Rio Grande. It makes no difference to her, that a murder has been committed on the road she will have to take; much less that near it has been seen the ghastly apparition of a headless horseman! What to any other traveller should cause dismay, seems only to attract Isidora.

She even proposes making the journey alone! Don Silvio offers an escort — half a score of his vaqueros, armed to the teeth. The offer is rejected. Will she take Benito? No. She prefers journeying alone. In short, she is determined upon it.

* * *

Next morning she carries out this determination. By day-break she is in the saddle; and, in less than two hours after, riding, not upon the direct road to the Rio Grande, but along the banks of the Alamo!

Why has she thus deviated from her route? Is she straying?

She looks not like one who has lost her way. There is a sad expression upon her countenance, but not one of inquiry. Besides, her horse steps confidently forward, as if under his rider’s direction, and guided by the rein.

Isidora is not straying. She has not lost her way.

Happier for her, if she had.

All night long the invalid lay awake; at times tranquil, at times giving way to a paroxysm of unconscious passion.

All night long the hunter sate by his bedside, and listened to his incoherent utterances.

They but confirmed two points of belief already impressed upon Zeb’s mind: that Louise Poindexter was beloved; that her brother had been murdered!

The last was a belief that, under any circumstances, would have been painful to the backwoodsman. Coupled with the facts already known, it was agonising.

He thought of the quarrel — the hat — the cloak. He writhed as he contemplated the labyrinth of dark ambiguities that presented itself to his mind. Never in his life had his analytical powers been so completely baffled. He groaned as he felt their impotence.

He kept no watch upon the door. He knew that if they came, it would not be in the night.

Once only he went out; but that was near morning, when the light of the moon was beginning to mingle with that of the day.

He had been summoned by a sound. Tara, straying among the trees, had given utterance to a long dismal “gowl,” and come running scared-like into the hut.

Extinguishing the light, Zeb stole forth, and stood listening.

There was an interruption to the nocturnal chorus; but that might have been caused by the howling of the hound? What had caused it?

The hunter directed his glance first upon the open lawn; then around its edge, and under the shadow of the trees.

There was nothing to be seen there, except what should be.

He raised his eyes to the cliff, that in a dark line trended along the horizon of the sky — broken at both ends by the tops of some tall trees that rose above its crest. There were about fifty paces of clear space, which he knew to be the edge of the upper plain terminating at the brow of the precipice.

The line separating the chiaro from the oscuro could be traced distinctly as in the day. A brilliant moon was beyond it. A snake could have been seen crawling along the top of the cliff.

There was nothing to be seen there.

But there was something to be heard. As Zeb stood listening there came a sound from the upper plain, that seemed to have been produced not far back from the summit of the cliff. It resembled the clinking of a horse’s shoe struck against a loose stone.

So conjectured Zeb, as with open ears he listened to catch its repetition.

It was not repeated; but he soon saw what told him his conjecture was correct — a horse, stepping out from behind the treetops, and advancing along the line of the bluff. There was a man upon his back — both horse and man distinctly seen in dark silhouette against the clear sapphire sky.

The figure of the horse was perfect, as in the outlines of a skilfully cast medallion.

That of the man could be traced — only from the saddle to the shoulders. Below, the limbs were lost in the shadow of the animal though the sparkle of spur and stirrup told that they were there. Above, there was nothing — not even the semblance of a head!

Zeb Stump rubbed his eyes and looked; and rubbed them and looked again. It did not change the character of the apparition. If he had rubbed them fourscore times, he would have seen the same — a horseman without a head.

This very sight he saw, beyond the possibility of disbelieving — saw the horse advancing along the level line in a slow but steady pace — without footfall — without sound of any kind — as if gliding rather than walking — like the shifting scene of a cosmorama!

Not for a mere instant had he the opportunity of observing the spectral apparition; but a period long enough to enable him to note every detail — long enough to satisfy him that it could be no illusion of the eye, or in any way a deception of his senses.

Nor did it vanish abruptly from his view; but slowly and gradually: first the head of the horse; then the neck and shoulders; then the shape, half ghastly, half grotesque, of the rider; then the hind-quarters of the animal; the hips; and last of all the long tapering tail!