There was he--Vizcarra himself--the despot--the despoiler--the violator of a sister's innocence and honour--there was he within six feet of the avenging brother--six feet from the muzzle of his ready rifle, and still ignorant of the terrible situation! His face was turned in an opposite direction--he saw not his peril. The glance of the cibolero rested upon him but an instant, and then swept the walls to ascertain if any one was above. He knew there were two sentries on the towers. They were not visible--they were on the outer walls and could not be seen from Carlos's position. No one else was above. His enemy alone was there, and his glance again rested upon him. Carlos could have sent the bullet into his back, and such a thought crossed his mind, but was gone in an instant. He had come to take the man's life, but not in that manner. Even prudence suggested a better plan. His knife would be more silent, and afford him a safer chance of escape when the deed was done! With this idea, he brought the butt of his rifle gently to the ground, and rested its barrel against the parapet. The iron coming in contact with the stone wall gave a tiny clink. Slight as it was, it reached the ear of the Comandante, who wheeled suddenly round, and started at the sight of the intruder. At first he exhibited anger, but the countenance of the cibolero, that had undergone a complete metamorphosis during the short interval, soon changed his anger into alarm. "How dare you intrude, sir?--how dare--" "Not so loud, colonel!--not so loud--you will be heard!" The low husky voice, and the firm tone of command, in which they were uttered, terrified the cowardly wretch to whom these words were addressed. He saw that the man who stood before him bore in his face and attitude the expression of desperate and irresistible resolve, that plainly said, "Disobey, and you are a dead man!" This expression was heightened by the gleaming blade of a long knife, whose haft was firmly grasped by the hand of the cibolero. At sight of those demonstrations, Vizcarra turned white with terror. He now comprehended what was meant. The asking for the troop had been but a subterfuge to get near his own person! The cibolero had tracked him; his guilt was known, and the brother was now come to demand redress or have vengeance! The horrors of his night-dream returned, now mingling with the horrors of the fearful reality before him. He scarce knew what to say--he could scarce speak. He looked wildly around in hopes of seeing some help. Not a face or form was in sight-- nothing but the grey walls, and before him the frowning face of his terrible antagonist. He would have called for help; but that face--that angry attitude--told him that the shout would be his last. He gasped out at length-- "What want you?" "_I want my sister_!" "Your sister?" "My sister!" "Carlos--I know not--she is not here--I--"