"My foes are after me like bloodhounds, but I fear them not. My brave steed is never out of my sight, and with him I can scorn my cowardly pursuers. But I must venture one visit to the town. I must see you once, querida. I have words for you I cannot trust to paper. Do not refuse to see me, and I shall come to the old place of meeting. To-morrow night--midnight. Do not refuse me, dearest love. I have much to explain that I cannot without seeing you face to face. You shall know that I am not an assassin--that I am still worthy of being your lover. "Thanks!--thanks for your kindness to my poor little wounded bird! I trust to God she will soon be well again. _Mi querida. Adios_!" When the beautiful lady had finished reading the note, she pressed it to her lips, and fervently kissed it. "Worthy of being my lover!" she murmured; "ay, worthy to be the lover of a queen! Brave, noble Carlos!" Again she kissed the paper, and, thrusting it into her bosom, glided softly from the apartment. CHAPTER FORTY ONE. Vizcarra's desire for revenge grew stronger every hour. The almost joyful reaction he had experienced, when relieved from the fear of death, was short-lived. So, too, was that which followed his relief from the anxiety about his captive. The thought that now tortured him was of a different character. The very breath of his existence--his personal appearance--was ruined for ever. He was disfigured for life! When the mirror was passed before his face, it caused his heart to burn like a coal of fire. Coward though he was, he would almost as soon have been killed outright. Several of his teeth were gone. They might have been replaced; but not so could be restored the mutilated cheek. A portion had been carried off by the "tear" of the bullet. There would be a hideous scar never to be healed! The sight was horrible. His thoughts were horrible. He groaned outright as he contemplated the countenance which the cibolero had given him. He swore vengeance. Death and torture if he could but capture Carlos--death to him and his! At times he even repented that he had sent away the sister. Why should he have cared for consequences? Why had he not revenged himself upon _her_? He no longer loved her. Her scornful laugh still rankled in his heart. She had been the cause of all his sufferings--of sufferings that would never end but with his life--chagrin and mortification for the rest of his days! Why had he not taken _her_ life? That would have been sweet revenge upon the brother. It would almost have been satisfaction. He tossed upon his couch, tortured with these reflections, and giving utterance at intervals to groans of anguish and horrid imprecations.