“We can spare a few beasts,” said Coronado.  “We must leave the weakest behind.”

“We must not give up provisions.”

“We can eat mules.”

“Not till the last moment.  We shall need them to take us back.”

Coronado inwardly cursed himself for venturing into this inferno, the haunting place of devils in human shape.  Then his mind wandered to Saratoga, New York, Newport, and the other earthly heavens that were known to him.  He hummed an air; it was the brindisi of Lucrezia Borgia; it reminded him of pleasures which now seemed lost forever; he stopped in the middle of it.  Between the associations which it excited—­the images of gayety and splendor, real or feigned—­a commingling of kid gloves, bouquets, velvet cloaks, and noble names—­between these glories which so attracted his hungry soul and the present environment of hideous deserts and savage pursuers, what a contrast there was!  There, far away, was the success for which he longed; here, close at hand, was the peril which must purchase it.  At that moment he was willing to deny his bargain with Garcia and the devil.  His boldest desire was, “Oh that I were in Santa Fe!”

By Coronado’s side rode a man who had not a thought for himself.  A person who has not passed years in the army can hardly imagine the sense of responsibility which is ground into the character of an officer.  He is a despot, but a despot who is constantly accountable for the welfare of his subjects, and who never passes a day without many grave thoughts of the despots above him.  Superior officers are in a manner his deities, and the Army Regulations have for him the weight of Scripture.  He never forgets by what solemn rules of duty and honor he will be judged if he falls short of his obligations.  This professional conscience becomes a destiny to him, and guides his life to an extent inconceivable by most civilians.  He acquires a habit of watching and caring for others; he cannot help assuming a charge which falls in his way.  When he is not governed by the rule of obedience, he is governed by the rule of responsibility.  The two make up his duty, and to do his duty is his existence.

At this moment our young West Pointer, only twenty-three or four years old, was gravely and grimly anxious for his four soldiers, for all these people whom circumstance had placed under his protection, and even for his army mules, provisions, and ammunition.  His only other sentiment was a passionate desire to prevent harm or even fear from approaching Clara Van Diemen.  These two sentiments might be said to make up for the present his entire character.  As we have already observed, he had not a thought for himself.

Presently it occurred to the youngster that he ought to cheer on his fellow-travellers.

Trotting up with a smile to Mrs. Stanley and Clara, he asked, “How do you bear it?”

“Oh, I am almost dead,” groaned Aunt Maria.  “I shall have to be tied on before long.”