While nearly every other spectator turned away in horror, he glared steadily and calmly at the corpse, repeating, "That's Injin fun, that is. That's what they brag on, that is." "Bury her outside the wall," ordered Thurstane with averted face. "And listen, all you people, not a word of this to the women." "We shall be catechised," said Coronado. "You must do the lying," replied the officer. He was so shaken by what he had witnessed that he did not dare to face Clara for an hour afterward, lest his discomposure should arouse her suspicions. When he did at last visit the tower, she was quiet and smiling, for Coronado had done his lying, and done it well. "So there was no attack," she said. "I am so glad!" "Only a little skirmish. You heard the firing, of course." "Yes. Coronado told us about it. What a horrible howling the Indians made! There were some screams that were really frightful." "It was their last demonstration. They will probably be gone in the morning." "Poor Pepita! She will be carried off," said Clara, a tear or two stealing down her cheek. "Yes, poor Pepita!" sighed Thurstane. The muleteer who had been killed in the assault was already buried. At sundown came the funeral of the soldier Shubert. The body, wrapped in a blanket, was borne by four Mexicans to the grave which had been prepared for it, followed by his three comrades with loaded muskets, and then by all the other members of the party, except Mrs. Stanley, who looked down from her roof upon the spectacle. Thurstane acted as chaplain, and read the funeral service from Clara's prayer-book, amidst the weeping of women and the silence of men. The dead young hero was lowered into his last resting-place. Sergeant Meyer gave the order: "Shoulder arms--ready--present--aim--fire!" The ceremony was ended; the muleteers filled the grave; a stone was placed to mark it; so slept a good soldier. Now came another night of anxiety, but also of quiet. In the morning, when eager eyes looked through the yellow haze of dawn over the plain, not an Apache was to be seen. "They are gone," said Coronado to Thurstane, after the two had made the tour of the ruins and scrutinized every feature of the landscape. "What next?" Thurstane swept his field-glass around once more, searching for some outlet besides the horrible cañon, and searching in vain. "We must wait a day or so for our wounded," he said. "Then we must start back on our old trail. I don't see anything else before us." "It is a gloomy prospect," muttered Coronado, thinking of the hundred miles of rocky desert, and of the possibility that Apaches might be ambushed at the end of it. He had been so anxious about himself for a few days that he had cared for little else. He had been humble, submissive to Thurstane, and almost entirely indifferent about Clara.