The knife was cleaving the air. The girl saw only Don Alfredo. "Pause! renegade," a deep voice sounded back of them. Padre Osuna had vaulted from an overhanging shelf. Catching Stanislaus's wrists he wrenched the knife from his hand. Raising the desperado from the earth he hurled him with volcanic power against a tree-trunk. The creature fell senseless. Examination showed him to be stunned only. The friar took Morando's head in his arms. "Where the hurt, my brother?" "My shoulder," his eyes closing in oblivion. "O, Padre, is Alfredo much injured?" her low words trembling with emotion. "I cannot yet tell, doña," sympathetic concern for the prostrate man showing in his face and voice as he half whispered the reply. "The wound is deep--and ugly--on the left side, too--I don't like its looks." He seemed to be speaking to himself, as his taper fingers deftly and gently searched the course of the bullet. Carmelita scarcely breathed. "Get some water from that spring, doña, quick. His pulse is stopping. Bring it in his cap; there's nothing else." The girl's feet scarcely touched the ground in performing the task. The friar dashed the water in Morando's face. His pulse showed no quickening. Carmelita hastened for another supply of water. This was as ineffective as the first. A third capful brought a slight return of animation. "He's a little better now." "O, padre." Morando looked slowly up at them. "Better now, brother? Good," as Morando slightly nodded. "We'll have you around soon. Lie very quietly and rest." At sight of the pallid face lying against the padre's arm, Carmelita turned and walked away, to conceal the sobbing that would not down. "But the bullet has found no vital part. Here it is, lodged in the muscles under the arm," the friar soon announced cheeringly. Immediately Carmelita returned, her face speaking joy, her lips silent. "With good care our caballero will recover. Thank God!" "Thank God!" repeated the girl, her throat hardly vocalizing the words. "And now, señorita, mia, may we trouble thee for more water? Our pitcher lacks size, therefore must it go often to the well." Morando drank eagerly, with the thirst of the wounded. Refreshed, he tried to move to a sitting posture. The padre gently restrained him. "Not yet, my friend. A little more rest." Morando again closed his eyes. "I forgot to send you word to-day, padre," from the señorita. "Word came, nevertheless, doña. My men cross-tracked the renegades in the hills above us and are now chasing them." Stanislaus, regaining consciousness from a shock that would have broken the bones of an ordinary man, made an attempt for freedom. The friar's hand whirled him back. "Estanislao, many unshriven souls have this day gone before God because of you. Have you no compunctions?" The Indian glowered.