Saint Vrain on seeing him enter had turned away, and stood looking out of the window. I was on the point of changing my tirade into the apostrophic form, and at the same time ordering the man out of my sight, when something in his look influenced me to remain silent. I could not tell whether he had heard or understood to whom my abusive epithets had been applied; but there was nothing in his manner that betrayed his having done so. I observed only the same look that had at first attracted me--the same expression of deep melancholy. Could this man be the hardened and heartless villain I had heard of, the author of so many atrocities? "Sir," said he, seeing that I remained silent, "I deeply regret what has happened to you. I was the involuntary cause of your mishap. Is your wound a severe one?" "It is not," I replied, with a dryness of manner that seemed somewhat to disconcert him. "I am glad of that," he continued, after a pause. "I came to thank you for your generous interference. I leave Santa Fe in ten minutes. I must bid you farewell." He held forth his hand. I muttered the word "farewell," but without offering to exchange the salutation. The stories of cruel atrocity connected with the name of this man came into my mind at the moment, and I felt a loathing for him. His arm remained in its outstretched position, while a strange expression began to steal over his countenance, as he saw that I hesitated. "I cannot take your hand," I said at length. "And why?" he asked, in a mild tone. "Why? It is red, red! Away, sir, away!" He fixed his eyes upon me with a sorrowful look. There was not a spark of anger in them. He drew his hand within the folds of his manga, and uttering a deep sigh, turned and walked slowly out of the room. Saint Vrain, who had wheeled round at the close of this scene, strode forward to the door, and stood looking after him. I could see the Mexican, from where I lay, as he crossed the quadrangular patio. He had shrugged himself closely in his manga, and was moving off in an attitude that betokened the deepest dejection. In a moment he was out of sight, having passed through the saguan, and into the street. "There is something truly mysterious about that man. Tell me, Saint Vrain--" "Hush-sh! look yonder!" interrupted my friend, pointing through the open door. I looked out into the moonlight. Three human forms were moving along the wall, towards the entrance of the patio. Their height, their peculiar attitudes, and the stealthy silence of their steps, convinced me they were Indians. The next moment they were lost under the dark shadows of the saguan. "Who are they?" I inquired. "Worse enemies to poor Seguin than you would be, if you knew him better. I pity him if these hungry hawks overtake him in the dark. But no; he's worth warning, and a hand to help him, if need be. He shall have it. Keep cool, Harry! I will be back in a jiffy."