There was now a deep voice in the tumult outside--a voice that boomed in heavy undertones. “It is the river, señor. Oh, I shall worry too.” “I’ll yell when I get across.” “I could not hear. But I have an old pistol which I took from a quarrelsome Indian.” The father disappeared into his bedroom and returned carrying a long-barrelled revolver of an old make. “Fire this when you reach the other side.” “Good-night, Father.” “Good-night, my son.” They shook hands and Señor John went out through the door leading into the garden. A little moon-faced clock on a shelf under the white-and-gold porcelain marked the time as close upon eight. The father returned to his armchair. But now he kept his eyes open and his lips pressed tight, and his head a little to one side. Thus, he waited. At half-past eight he got up and went to the front door. Rain was still falling heavily, but the wind seemed to have abated a degree. He listened. The river was speaking with a medley of curious voices: There was the rise and fall of pleasant argumentation; wagon-wheels ground over gravel; a child whimpered; oars pounded and squeaked in their rowlocks; steam sang; a dog snarled. Presently he made out the wide Rio Grande as pools of glistening black that moved upon a dead blackness. With the glimpse of that sweeping, inky flood, fear came over him. He called: “Señor John! Come back! Señor! _Señor!_” There was no answer. But as he watched--shivering a little--a tiny speck of light suddenly showed in the distance, where stood the Allen hacienda. “Good!” he exclaimed. “He must be there.” And after watching and listening for another while, he closed the door and went back to his chair. The wind was plainly lessening, so that now the bedroom blinds banged only occasionally--and the rain was falling more gently. He leaned back, propped his head on a hand, and dozed. Suddenly, he found himself sitting bolt upright, clutching either arm of the chair, holding his breath. What was that? What had awakened him? He seemed to hear them yet--the dying tones of a bell! His eyes sought the clock. _Four!_ And the storm was over, for he could hear the ticking. He rose. He lit the lantern. He tied the purple-bordered square of silk over his white hair. Then he hastened down the garden-walk, out of the gate, and toward the river, calling with all his strength. A voice answered him faintly, as if from the opposite shore. He shouted again. It was a girl’s voice--the second answer made that certain. Then he heard the snort of a horse, splashing, and a murmur of encouraging words. As he awaited her approach, he made circles with his lantern upon the river, and whispered in an agony of self-reproach: “He is lost. And I let him go! He is lost or she would not be seeking him!” There were few clouds in the sky, and in the east was a pale lightening, as if of the dawn. By holding the lantern behind him, he made out horse and rider as they neared.