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“Buelna,” demanded Felipe. “I have something to say to her, and to the padron.”

“Too late, senor.”

“My God, dead?”

“As good as dead.”

“Rafael, tell me all. I have come to set everything straight again. On my honour, I have been misjudged. Is Buelna well?”

“Listen. You know your own heart best, senor. When you left her our little lady was as one half dead; her heart died within her. Ah, she loved you, Arillaga, far more than you deserved. She drooped swiftly, and one night all but passed away. Then it was that she made a vow that if God spared her life she would become the bride of the church–would forever renounce the world. Well, she recovered, became almost well again, but not the same as before. She never will be that. So soon as she was able to obtain Martiarena’s consent she made all the preparations–signed away all her lands and possessions, and spent the days and nights in prayer and purifications. The Mother Superior of the Convent of Santa Teresa has been a guest at the hacienda this fortnight past. Only to-day the party–that is to say, Martiarena, the Mother Superior and Buelna–left for Santa Teresa, and at midnight of this very night Buelna takes the veil. You know your own heart, Senor Felipe. Go your way.”

“But not till midnight!” cried Felipe.

“What? I do not understand.”

“She will not take the veil till midnight.”

“No, not till then.”

“Rafael,” cried Felipe, “ask me no questions now. Only believe me. I always have and always will love Buelna. I swear it. I can stop this yet; only once let me reach her in time. Trust me. Ah, for this once trust me, you who have known me since I was a lad.”

He held out his hand. The other for a moment hesitated, then impulsively clasped it in his own.

“Bueno, I trust you then. Yet I warn you not to fool me twice.”

“Good,” returned Felipe. “And now adios. Unless I bring her back with me you’ll never see me again.”

“But, Felipe, lad, where away now?”

“To Santa Teresa.”

“You are mad. Do you fancy you can reach it before midnight?” insisted the major-domo.

“I will, Rafael; I will.”

“Then Heaven be with you.”

But the old fellow’s words were lost in a wild clatter of hoofs, as Felipe swung his pony around and drove home the spurs. Through the night came back a cry already faint:

“Adios, adios.”

“Adios, Felipe,” murmured the old man as he stood bewildered in the doorway, “and your good angel speed you now.”

When Felipe began his ride it was already a little after nine. Could he reach Santa Teresa before midnight? The question loomed grim before him, but he answered only with the spur. Pepe was hardy, and, as Felipe well knew, of indomitable pluck. But what a task now lay before the little animal. He might do it, but oh! it was a chance!

In a quarter of a mile Pepe had settled to his stride, the dogged, even gallop that Felipe knew so well, and at half-past ten swung through the main street of Piedras Blancas–silent, somnolent, dark.

“Steady, little Pepe,” said Felipe; “steady, little one. Soh, soh. There.”

The little horse flung back an ear, and Felipe could feel along the lines how he felt for the bit, trying to get a grip of it to ease the strain on his mouth.

The De Profundis bell was sounding from the church tower as Felipe galloped through San Anselmo, the next village, but by the time he raised the lights of Arcata it was black night in very earnest. He set his teeth. Terra Bella lay eight miles farther ahead, and here from the town-hall clock that looked down upon the plaza he would be able to know the time.

“Hoopa, Pepe; pronto!” he shouted.

The pony responded gallantly. His head was low; his ears in constant movement, twitched restlessly back and forth, now laid flat on his neck, now cocked to catch the rustle of the wind in the chaparral, the scurrying of a rabbit or ground-owl through the sage.