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“Yes, senora,” broke out the old man, passionately. “It is because I am the servant of your uncle that I, and I ALONE, dare say it to you! It is because I perjured my soul, and have perjured my soul to deny it elsewhere, that I now dare to say it! It is because I, your servant, knew it from one of my countrymen, who was of the gang,–because I, Miguel, knew that your brother was not far away that night, and because I, whom you would dismiss, have picked up this pocket-book of Randolph’s and your brother’s ring which he have dropped, and I have found beneath the body of the man you sent me to fetch.”

He drew a packet from his bosom, and tossed it on the desk before her.

“And why have you not told me this before?” said Josephine, passionately.

Miguel shrugged his shoulders.

“What good? Possibly this dog Randolph would die. Possibly he would live–as a lunatic. Possibly would happen what has happened! The senora is beautiful. The American has eyes. If the Dona Josephine’s beauty shall finish what the silly Don Esteban’s arm have begun–what matter?”

“Stop!” cried Josephine, pressing her hands across her shuddering eyes. Then, uncovering her white and set face, she said rapidly, “Saddle my horse and your own at once. Then take your choice! Come with me and repeat all that you have said in the presence of that man, or leave this ranch forever. For if I live I shall go to him tonight, and tell the whole story.”

The old man cast a single glance at his mistress, shrugged his shoulders, and, without a word, left the room. But in ten minutes they were on their way to the county town.

Day was breaking over the distant Burnt Ridge–a faint, ghostly level, like a funeral pall, in the dim horizon–as they drew up before the gaunt, white-painted pile of the hospital building. Josephine uttered a cry. Dr. Duchesne’s buggy was before the door. On its very threshold they met the doctor, dark and irritated. “Then you heard the news?” he said, quickly.

Josephine turned her white face to the doctor’s. “What news?” she asked, in a voice that seemed strangely deep and resonant.

“The poor fellow had another attack last night, and died of exhaustion about an hour ago. I was too late to save him.”

“Did he say anything? Was he conscious?” asked the girl, hoarsely.

“No; incoherent! Now I think of it, he harped on the same string as he did the night of the operation. What was it he said? you remember.”

“‘You’ll have to kill me first,'” repeated Josephine, in a choking voice.

“Yes; something about his dying before he’d tell. Well, he came back to it before he went off–they often do. You seem a little hoarse with your morning ride. You should take care of that voice of yours. By the way, it’s a good deal like your brother’s.”

*****

The Chatelaine of Burnt Ridge never married.