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I threw myself frantically on the ground beside her.

“You are hurt, Consita! For Heaven’s sake, what has happened?”

She pushed my hat back with her little hand, and tumbled my hair gently.

“Nothing. YOU are here, Pancho–eet is enofe! What shall come after thees–when I am perhaps gone among the grave–make nothing! YOU are here–I am happy. For a little, perhaps–not mooch.”

“But,” I went on desperately, “was it an accident? Were you thrown? Was it Chu Chu?”–for somehow, in spite of her languid posture and voice, I could not, even in my fears, believe her seriously hurt.

“Beat not the poor beast, Pancho. It is not from HER comes thees thing. She have make nothing–believe me! I have come upon your assignation with Miss Essmith! I make but to pass you–to fly–to never come back! I have say to Chu Chu, ‘Fly!’ We fly many miles. Sometimes together, sometimes not so mooch! Sometimes in the saddle, sometimes on the neck! Many things remain in the road; at the end, I myself remain! I have say, ‘Courage, Pancho will come!’ Then I say, ‘No, he is talk with Miss Essmith!’ I remember not more. I have creep here on the hands. Eet is feenish!”

I looked at her distractedly. She smiled tenderly, and slightly smoothed down and rearranged a fold of her dress to cover her delicate little boot.

“But,” I protested, “you are not much hurt, dearest. You have broken no bones. Perhaps,” I added, looking at the boot, “only a slight sprain. Let me carry you to my horse; I will walk beside you, home. Do, dearest Consita!”

She turned her lovely eyes towards me sadly. “You comprehend not, my poor Pancho! It is not of the foot, the ankle, the arm, or the head that I can say, ‘She is broke!’ I would it were even so. But”–she lifted her sweet lashes slowly–“I have derrange my inside. It is an affair of my family. My grandfather have once toomble over the bull at a rodeo. He speak no more; he is dead. For why? He has derrange his inside. Believe me, it is of the family. You comprehend? The Saltellos are not as the other peoples for this. When I am gone, you will bring to me the berry to grow upon my tomb, Pancho; the berry you have picked for me. The little flower will come too, the little star will arrive, but Consuelo, who lofe you, she will come not more! When you are happy and talk in the road to the Essmith, you will not think of me. You will not see my eyes, Pancho; thees little grass”–she ran her plump little fingers through a tussock–“will hide them; and the small animals in the black coats that lif here will have much sorrow–but you will not. It ees better so! My father will not that I, a Catholique, should marry into a camp-meeting, and lif in a tent, and make howl like the coyote.” (It was one of Consuelo’s bewildering beliefs that there was only one form of dissent–Methodism!) “He will not that I should marry a man who possess not the many horses, ox, and cow, like him. But I care not. YOU are my only religion, Pancho! I have enofe of the horse, and ox, and cow when YOU are with me! Kiss me, Pancho. Perhaps it is for the last time–the feenish! Who knows?”

There were tears in her lovely eyes; I felt that my own were growing dim; the sun was sinking over the dreary plain to the slow rising of the wind; an infinite loneliness had fallen upon us, and yet I was miserably conscious of some dreadful unreality in it all. A desire to laugh, which I felt must be hysterical, was creeping over me; I dared not speak. But her dear head was on my shoulder, and the situation was not unpleasant.

Nevertheless, something must be done! This was the more difficult as it was by no means clear what had already been done. Even while I supported her drooping figure I was straining my eyes across her shoulder for succor of some kind. Suddenly the figure of a rapid rider appeared upon the road. It seemed familiar. I looked again–it was the blessed Enriquez! A sense of deep relief came over me. I loved Consuelo; but never before had lover ever hailed the irruption of one of his beloved’s family with such complacency.