“Carlos!” she whispered.

A man who lay on the straw at the back of the cell sprang to his feet and came forward.

“My little one!” he said.  “I knew that song would bring thee.  I begged them for a guitar, then to be put into a front cell.”  He forced his hands through the bars and gave her life again with his strong warm clasp.

“Come out,” she said.

“Ay! they have me fast.  But when they do let me out, nina, I will take thee in my arms; and whosoever tries to tear thee away again will have a dagger in his heart.  Dios de mi vida!  I could tear their flesh from their bones for the shame and the pain they have given thee, thou poor little innocent girl!”

“But thou lovest me, Carlos?”

“There is not an hour I am not mad for thee, not a corner of my heart that does not ache for thee!  Ay, little one, never mind; life is long, and we are young.”

She pressed nearer and laid his hand on her heart.

“Ay!” she said, “life is long.”

“Holy Mary!” he cried.  “The hills are on fire!”

A shout went up in the town.  A flame, midway on the curving hills, leaped to the sky, narrow as a ribbon, then swept out like a fan.  The moon grew dark behind a rolling pillar of smoke.  The upcurved arms of the pines were burnt into a wall of liquid shifting red.  The caballeros sprang to their horses, and driving the Indians before them, fled to the hills to save the town.  The indolent women of Monterey mingled their screams with the shrill cries of the populace and the hoarse shouts of their men.  The prison sentries stood to their posts for a few moments; then the panic claimed them, and they threw down their guns and ran with the rest to the hills.

Carlos gave a cry of derision and triumph.  “My little one, our hour has come!  Run and find the keys.”

The big bunch of keys had been flung hastily into a corner.  A moment later Carlos held the shaking form of the girl in his powerful arms.  Slender and delicate as she was, she made no protest against the fierceness of that embrace.

“But come,” he said.  “We have only this hour for escape.  When we are safe in the mountains—­Come!”

He lifted her in his arms and ran down the crooked street to a corral where an hidalgo kept his finest horses.  Carlos had been the vaquero of the band.  The iron bars of the great doors were down—­only one horse was in the corral; the others had carried the hidalgo and his friends to the fire.  The brute neighed with delight as Carlos flung saddle and aquera into place, then, with La Perdida in his arms, sprang upon its back.  The vaquero dug his spurs into the shining flanks, the mustang reared, shook his small head and silver mane, and bounded through the doors.

A lean, bent, and wiry thing darted from the shadows and hung upon the horse’s neck.  It was the husband of La Perdida, and his little brown face looked like an old walnut.