time, the thought was horrible.

Leaving the shelter at dawn I found Antonio and the Indian who owned the
hut conversing together in the reeking mist with their _serapes_ thrown
across their mouths, which few Mexicans leave uncovered until after the
sun is up. Inflammation of the lungs is the disease they dread more than
any other, and the thin night air engenders it.

"What is it, Antonio?" I asked. "Are the brigands after us?"

"No, senor, hope brigands not come now. This senor say much sick San
Jose."

I answered that I was very sorry to hear it, but that I meant to go on;
indeed, I think that it was only terror of the brigands coupled with the
promise of a considerable reward which persuaded him to do so, though,
owing to my ignorance of Spanish and his very slight knowledge of
English, precisely what he feared I could not discover. In the end we
started, and towards evening Antonio pointed out to us the _hacienda_ of
Concepcion, a large white building standing on a hill which overshadowed
San Jose, a straggling little place, half-town, half-village, with a
population of about 3,000 inhabitants.

Just as, riding along the rough cobble-paved road, we reached the
entrance to the town, I heard shouts, and, turning, saw two mounted men
with rifles in their hands apparently calling to us to come back. Taking
it for granted that these were the brigands following us up,
although, as I afterwards discovered, they were in fact _rurales_ or
cavalry-police, despite the remonstrances of Antonio I urged the jaded
mules forward at a gallop. Thereupon the _rurales_, who had pulled up at