I bent down over the tracks. They were of recent date--made that very day. My prairie experience enabled me to tell this, despite the obscurity through which I scrutinised them. The "sign" promised well for the success of our enterprise. Beyond, the road became opener and easier. For two or three hundred yards it trended along a horizontal level, and we could walk without strain. The stage-driver silently preceded me--still going slowly, and without any abatement of caution. I had time to reflect, as I followed him. My thoughts were anything but cheerful. The gloomy canopy of the pines appeared to give a tinge to my spirit, and it became attuned to the sad sighing heard high up among their _ancillae_. The moaning of the great Mexican owl, as it glided past on soft silent wing, seemed meant only to mock me! I had been under a half belief that I had forgotten Dolores Villa-Senor, or become indifferent to her existence. Vain hallucination! Idle, and I knew it now. Long weary marches; sieges protracted; battles, and wounds therein received; even the coquetry of other eyes--wicked as hers--had not chased her image from my heart, or my memory. It was there still. I could see her countenance before me--under the sombre shadow of the trees--plain as I saw the white-winged owls--soft as the weird wafting of their wings! I had not forgotten her. In that hour I knew that I never should. And while hastening to effect her rescue, I felt as if I could have gloated over her ruin--so steeped was my soul in chagrin--so brimful of black vengeance! It was no chivalrous thought that was carrying me up the slopes of Ixticihuatl--only the hope of humiliating her, who had humiliated me! I was aroused from my unworthy imaginings by the voice of Sam Brown, whispering close to my ear. His words were:-- "Don't ye hear it, cap'n?" "Hear what?" "The music." "If you call the hooting of that horrid owl--" I stopped at a gesture from my guide. In the obscurity I could see his hand uplifted, his finger pointing upwards. "Don't ye hear somethin' up that way?" he continued, "Thar's the twang o' a guitar, or one o' them thar Mexikin bandoleens--as they call 'em. Hear that? Somebody laughin'! Hear that, too? If my ears haven't lost thar hearin', that ere's the voice o' a sheemale!" The last remark secured my attention. I listened--as if expecting to hear a summons of life or death! There _was_ the twang of a stringed instrument--harp or guitar, bandolon or _jarana_. There _was_ a voice--a man's voice--and the instant after a series soft tones, with that metallic ring that can only proceed from the feminine throat. "Yes," I assented, mechanically, "there's music there!" "Moren' that, cap'n! Thar's dancin'." Again I listened. Certainly there was the pattering of feet over a floor--with motion timed to the music--now and then a pause--a laugh or an exclamation--all betokening a scene of enjoyment!