"Curses, a thousand curses upon you, Gutiero, De Vera, Almar, Cueva—but wait! One is wanting! There were nine, or I miscounted. Ah!—De Valera!" At that moment he heard a shout, faint and distant, up the canyon, and saw Cueva draw rein. "Shall we wait for him?" Cristoval heard him ask. "No!" replied one, with an oath. "Let him follow as he can. He’s always behind, the pig, and we’ve wasted time enough for his lagging. He’ll not wander far off this highway, I’ll venture a peso. Give him an answer, then come." "Give him answer with thine own wind, if thou hast wind to spare, I’ll not," retorted the other, and gave spur. They moved on. Another distant hallo, and Cristoval’s eyes suddenly fired. He glanced at Rava, and his resolution formed. There was one chance, and only one, of saving her. She could never survive another day of torture. Maimed and exhausted, a league farther would be beyond her powers. They must have a horse. Cristoval unbuckled his belt. His lips were compressed, and there was a light in his eyes which Rava had never seen. Laying down belt and scabbard, he picked up his naked blade, gave it quick scrutiny, and looked after the retreating cavalcade. It moved slowly, and it was long before he turned from scowling down the valley. From the other direction came shouts, growing more distinct. He looked again at Rava, who had risen upon her elbow and was watching his eyes in alarm. "Make no sound!" he whispered, gently touched her hand, and was gone. A rapid climb brought him to the trail. He glanced once more down the canyon. The horsemen had disappeared beyond a turn, and he ran to the abutting rock where they had dismounted. Here he stepped off the path, and placed himself against the rock. The shouts from the upper valley were near enough now to betray De Valera’s anxiety. Minutes passed, then came the ring of the horse’s hoofs. They ceased, and a grunt close by told him the laggard trooper had dismounted. De Valera emitted another bellowing wail, and Cristoval heard his puffing approach. "Come along, thou lazy—ambling—lop-eared—bedeviled—misbegotten—and wholly damned son—of a cow!" De Valera was addressing his languid steed. Cristoval grinned and laid aside his sword. "Bah! Why kill the wretch?" he thought, but loosed his dagger and gathered for a spring, his alert eyes upon the trail. De Valera appeared, lance over his shoulder, his face purple with irritation and shouting, tugging his reluctant horse. Cristoval was upon him like an avalanche. "Whoof!" blurted De Valera, with sudden aspiration as he received the charge. Cristoval grappled, and he dropped his lance, slipped, clutched the neck of his assailant’s mail, and both rolled down the face of the rock. The horse reared and turned, lost his footing and regained it, and tore back up the canyon at a run.