"He has his men here. He wouldn't leave his soldiers." "His men! They can take care of themselves. If they can't, I should like to know what they are good for. I think it highly probable he went off of his own choice." "I think it highly probable you know nothing about it," snapped Clara. "You are incapable of judging him." The girl was not just now herself. Her whole soul was concentrated in justifying, loving, and saving Thurstane; and her manner, instead of being serenely and almost lazily gentle, was unpleasantly excited. It was as if some charming alluvial valley should suddenly give forth the steam and lava of a volcano. Finding no sympathy in Aunt Maria, and having little confidence in the good-will of Coronado, she looked about her for help. There was Sergeant Meyer; he had been Thurstane's right-hand man; moreover, he looked trustworthy. She seized the first opportunity to beckon him up to her eerie on the roof of the Casa. "Sergeant, I must speak with you privately," she said at once, with the frankness of necessity. The sergeant, a well-bred soldier, respectful to ladies, and especially to ladies who were the friends of officers, raised his forefinger to his cap and stood at attention. "How came Lieutenant Thurstane to go down the river?" she asked. "It was the lariat proke," replied Meyer, in a whispering, flute-like voice which he had when addressing his superiors. "Did it break, or was it cut?" The sergeant raised his small, narrow, and rather piggish gray eyes to hers with a momentary expression of anxiety. "I must pe gareful what I zay," he answered, sinking his voice still lower. "We must poth pe gareful. I examined the lariat. I fear it was sawed. But we must not zay this." "Who sawed it?" demanded Clara with a gasp. "It was no one in the poat," replied Meyer diplomatically. "Was it that man--that hunter--Smith?" Another furtive glance between the sandy eyelashes expressed an uneasy astonishment; the sergeant evidently had a secret on his mind which he must not run any risk of disclosing. "I do not zee how it was Schmidt" he fluted almost inaudibly. "He was watching the peasts at their basture." "Then who did saw it?" "I do not know. I do not feel sure that it was sawed." Perceiving that, either from ignorance or caution, he would not say more on this point, Clara changed the subject and asked, "Can Lieutenant Thurstane go down the river safely?" "I would like noting petter than to make the exbedition myself," replied Meyer, once more diplomatic. Now came a silence, the soldier waiting respectfully, the girl not knowing how much she might dare to say. Not that she doubted Meyer; on the contrary, she had a perfect confidence in him; how could she fail to trust one who had been trusted by Thurstane? "Sergeant," she at last whispered, "we must find him." "Yes, miss," touching his cap as if he were taking an oath by it. "And you," she hesitated, "must protect _me_."