Improbable as was this conjecture, it had many supporters, in the absence of the true motive for the conduct of the cibolero. There were but four men within the Presidio to whom this was known, and only three outside of it. By the general public it was not even suspected. In one thing all agreed--in condemning Carlos the cibolero. The garotta was too good for him; and when taken, they could all promise him ample punishment. The very ingratitude of the act was magnified. It was but the day before that these same officers had gone forth with their valiant soldiers to do him a service! The man must have been mad! His mother had no doubt bewitched him. To have killed Lieutenant Garcia!--he who was such a favourite! _Carrambo_! This was true. Garcia was liked by the people of the settlement-- perhaps not so much from the possession of any peculiar virtues, but in contrast with his superiors. He was an affable, harmless sort of person, and had won general esteem. That night the cibolero had not one friend in San Ildefonso. Nay, we speak wrongly. He had _one_. There was one heart beating for him as fondly as ever--Catalina's--but she, too, was ignorant of the motives which had led to his mysterious conduct. Whatever these motives were, she knew they could not be otherwise than just. What to her were the calumnies--the gibes--that were heaped upon him? What to her if he had taken the life of a fellow-creature? He had not done so without good cause--without some fearful provocation. She believed that in her soul. She knew his noble nature too well to think otherwise. He was the lord of her heart, and could do no wrong! Sorrowful, heart-breaking news was it to her. It boded long separation--perhaps for ever! He dared no more visit the town--not even the settlement! He would be driven to the wild plains--hunted like the wolf or the savage bison--perhaps taken and slain! Bitter were her reflections. When should she see him again? Maybe, never! CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. During all this time Vizcarra lay groaning upon his couch--not so much with pain as fear, for the fear of death still haunted him. But for that, his rage would have been boundless; but this passion was in abeyance--eclipsed by the terrors that flitted across his conscience. Even had he been assured of recovery he would still have been in dread. His imagination was diseased by his dream and the after reality. Even surrounded by his soldiers, he feared the cibolero, who appeared able to accomplish any deed and escape its consequences. He did not even feel secure there in his chamber, with guards at the entrance, against that avenging arm!