Patterson arose without a word, filled a flask of spirit, handed it to his friend, and silently led the way through the slowly falling rain and the now settled darkness.  The mustang was quickly secured and saddled; a heavy poncho afforded Tucker a disguise as well as a protection from the rain.  With a few hurried, disconnected words, and an abstracted air, he once more shook his friend’s hand and issued cautiously from the corral.  When out of earshot from the house he put spurs to the mustang, and dashed into a gallop.

To intersect the mountain road he was obliged to traverse part of the highway his wife had walked that afternoon, and to pass within a mile of the casa where she was.  Long before he reached that point his eyes were straining the darkness in that direction for some indication of the house which was to him familiar.  Becoming now accustomed to the even obscurity, less trying to the vision than the alternate light and shadow of cloud or the full glare of the moonlight, he fancied he could distinguish its low walls over the monotonous level.  One of those impulses which had so often taken the place of resolution in his character suddenly possessed him to diverge from his course and approach the house.  Why, he could not have explained.  It was not from any feeling of jealous suspicion or contemplated revenge—­that had passed with the presence of Patterson; it was not from any vague lingering sentiment for the woman he had wronged—­he would have shrunk from meeting her at that moment.  But it was full of these and more possibilities by which he might or might not be guided, and was at least a movement towards some vague end, and a distraction from certain thoughts he dared not entertain and could not entirely dismiss.  Inconceivable and inexplicable to human reason, it might have been acceptable to the Divine omniscience for its predestined result.

He left the road at a point where the marsh encroached upon the meadow, familiar to him already as near the spot where he had debarked from the Chinaman’s boat the day before.  He remembered that the walls of the hacienda were distinctly visible from the tules where he had hidden all day, and he now knew that the figures he had observed near the building, which had deterred his first attempts at landing, must have been his wife and his friend.  He knew that a long tongue of the slough filled by the rising tide followed the marsh, and lay between him and the hacienda.  The sinking of his horse’s hoofs in the spongy soil determined its proximity, and he made a detour to the right to avoid it.  In doing so, a light suddenly rose above the distant horizon ahead of him, trembled faintly, and then burned with a steady lustre.  It was a light at the hacienda.  Guiding his horse half abstractedly in this direction, his progress was presently checked by the splashing of the animal’s hoofs in the water.  But the turf below was firm,