It seemed an hour before her ears caught the sound of hoofs, and she closed her eyes. They neared slowly, until she heard the subdued voices of the riders. They halted a moment, scanning the mountain-sides, and moved on. They were opposite the bowlder, so close that she could hear the creaking saddles; an age in passing; finally past. Cristoval relaxed his grip upon her arm, and she heard his deep-drawn breath. He half arose and looked warily after them. A gallant party, surely, with the sunlight glancing from their steel, but Cristoval whispered a fervent curse upon them as they wound along the trail—upon each by name, for they were near enough for easy recognition. They rode slowly, searching the sides of the defile with careful scrutiny; halted at a point a hundred yards up the canyon, and dismounted to lead their horses, over the narrow path where an outcropping ledge crowded toward a dangerous slope, falling away abruptly to the stream twenty feet below. Beyond this they mounted again and shortly disappeared beyond a jutting crag. Cristoval turned to Rava. She was crouched with half-closed eyes, her hands tight-pressed upon her bosom. Startled by her pallor and the drawn lines about her mouth, he hastily opened the pouch and drew forth the flask of _chicha_. "Here!" he whispered, unstopping it and pressing it to her lips. "Swallow this. It will help thy strength. They have gone.—Rava! Dost hear? Swallow!" She obeyed mechanically. He bathed her forehead with the icy water, and presently she revived. "Ah! _Gracias á Dios_!" he murmured, as she opened her eyes. "Thou’rt better? Another sip, and thou’lt be thyself. They have gone, but we must find better shelter before they return.—Poor little one, thou ’rt worn to death—and, _Madre_!—thy feet! Oh, _miserere Domine_!" He looked cautiously about. Beyond was a larger bowlder, rising almost from the water’s edge, a few small bushes growing near. It would afford better hiding—the only one as far as he could see. He bore her thither. Seating her against the rock with his folded cloak for cushion, he hastened to unlace her sandals and bathe and bandage her cuts. Her head was drooping, and he quickly cleared the narrow strip of sand, and eased her upon it. She was sleeping heavily almost before he had drawn her cloak around her. Cristoval seated himself to await the return of the cavalcade, lines of anxiety on his face as he looked upon the motionless form, wan cheeks, and darkened eyelids, and pondered the gloomy prospects. She was at the limit of her strength. "Ah, _miserere nobis, Domine_!" It was late afternoon when he was roused by sounds of the returning horsemen. He rose to his knees, silently unsheathing his sword. The movement awakened Rava, and he raised a warning hand. He heard them halt to dismount, and soon they were passing, riding carelessly, the search of the canyon evidently given over. He looked furtively out as they straggled by.