The journey drew to an end very quickly.  Romero, deserted now by its garrison, stirred and stared sleepily at the invaders, but concerned itself with their presence no more than to wonder why they laughed and talked so spiritedly.  Plainly, these gringos were a barbarous race of people, what with their rushing here and there, and with their loud, senseless laughter.  God had wisely placed them beyond the Rio Grande, said the citizens of Romero.

The crossing was made; Alaire found herself in Texas once again, and it seemed to her that the sun had never been so bright, the air so clear, the sky so high, the world so smiling, as here and now.  The men who had ridden forth to seek her were smiling, too, and they were shaking her hands and congratulating her.  Even the Guzman boys, who were shy in the presence of American ladies, were wishing her the best of fortune and the greatest of happiness.

Blaze Jones was the last to leave.  With especial emphasis upon her name, he said:  “Miz Austin, Paloma and me would like to have you come to our house and stay until you feel like goin’ back to Las Palmas.”

When Alaire declined with moistened eyes, explaining that she could not well accept his invitation, he signified his understanding.

“We’re goin’ to see a lot of you, just the same,” he promised her, “’cause we feel as if you sort of belonged to us.  There’s a lot of good people in this part of Texas, and them that ain’t so good God and the Rangers is slowly weedin’ out.  We don’t always know the ones we like best until something happens to ’em, but if you’d heard the prayers the folks of Jonesville have been sayin’ lately you’d know you was our favorite.”  Then, with a meaning twinkle in his eye, he told her, gravely:  “It seems a pity that I ain’t younger and better-lookin’.  I would sure cut short your grief.”  Then he raised his hat and rode away, chuckling.

Alaire turned to Dave in dismay.  “He knows!” she cried.

“I’m afraid they all know.  But don’t worry; they’ll respect our wishes.”

Father O’Malley had ridden on ahead with Benito and Dolores; Dave and Alaire followed leisurely.  Now that the moment of their parting was at hand, they lingered by the way, delaying it as long as possible, feeling a natural constraint at what was in their minds.

“How long—­will it be?” he asked her, finally.  “How long before I can really have you for my own?”

Alaire smiled into his eyes.  “Not long.  But you’ll be patient, won’t you, dear?”

He took her hand in his, and they rode on silently, a song in the heart of each of them.

THE END