"Rita!" repeated the nun in a hollow broken voice, "What of her? Where am I? how came I here? Oh, oh!" she exclaimed in tones of anguish, "I remember!" She put her hand to her head with a suffering gesture; a strange wild gleam shone in her eyes, her reason seemed departing. Herrera anxiously watched her. Her features became more composed, and for a moment she appeared to suffer less. "And Rita?" he again asked. She looked him full in the face, the fire of delirium in her eyes. "Rita!" she repeated. She paused, and then burst out into a scream of laughter that made Herrera shudder. "Ha, ha!" she cried, "False! vile! faithless!"---- The laugh died away upon her convulsed lips, a deep sob burst from her breast, her head fell back. She was a corpse. Herrera had but just assured himself that life had indeed fled, when he heard in two different directions the sound of horses' feet, and then Torres galloped up, followed by three of the guerillas. "What do you here? The Mochuelo is furious at the delay. You will be left behind. Where is Rita? Who is this?" cried he, looking at the dead body of the nun. Before Herrera could reply, Velasquez cleared the ditch. His face was covered with blood, his sabre, which dangled from his wrist, showed the same sanguine signals, and he led Baltasar's horse by the rein. "Mount!" cried he to Herrera, "and spur, all of you, like devils. We have been here too long already." "You overtook him?" cried Herrera, springing into the saddle. For sole reply, Velasquez raised his crimsoned sword, and dashing away with the back of his hand the blood that blinded him, and which flowed from a cut on his head, he set forward at full speed towards the convent. The guerillas were already formed up in readiness to depart. The Mochuelo, chafing with impatience, had ridden a short distance to meet Herrera and Velasquez. "By all the saints!" he exclaimed, as they came up, "this delay may cost us our lives, Captain Herrera. But how is this, you come alone? He has escaped then, and carried off the lady!" "It was not her we seek," replied Luis; "she must still be in the convent." "Impossible!" said the Mochuelo. "We have rummaged every corner of it." "She must be there!" cried Herrera. "I will find her." "We march instantly," said the Mochuelo, laying his hand on Herrera's bridle. "We have tarried too long." "Go, then, without me," exclaimed Herrera. And, snatching his rein from the guerilla's grasp, he spurred his horse up the slope. "Go with him, Señor Torres," said the Mochuelo. "Every moment is a man's life. Three minutes more and I march." Torres rode after his friend. "And Baltasar?" said the Mochuelo to his lieutenant. "Lies yonder in the valley," was the reply of Velasquez, as he wiped his sword on his horse's mane, and returned it to the scabbard. "Wolves' meat, if they will have him."