“My dear cousin,” he said gently, “you must not suppose that I am not greatly afflicted by this accident.  I appreciate the high merit of Lieutenant Thurstane, and I grieve sincerely at his misfortune.  What can I do?  I will do the best I can for all.  Trusting to your good sense, I will do whatever you say.  But if you want my advice, here it is.  We ought for our own sakes to leave here to-morrow; but for his sake we will wait a day.  In that time he may rejoin us, or he may regain the Moqui trail.  So we will set out, if you have no objection, on the morning of day after to-morrow, and push for the pueblos.  When we do start, we must march, as you know, at our best speed.”

“Thank you, Coronado,” said Clara.  “It is the best you can do.”

There were not five minutes during that day and the next that the girl did not look across the plain to the gorge of the dry canon, in the hope that she might see Thurstane approaching.  At other times she gazed eagerly down the San Juan, although she knew that he could not stem the current.  Her love and her sorrow were ready to believe in miracles.  How is it possible, she often thought, that such a brief sweep of water should carry him so utterly away?  In spite of her fear of vexing Coronado, she questioned him over and over as to the course of the stream and the nature of its banks, only to find that he knew next to nothing.

“It will be hard for him to return to us,” the man finally suggested, with an air of being driven unwillingly to admit it.  “He may have to go on a long way down the river.”

The truth is that, not knowing whether the lost men could return easily or not, he was anxious to get away from their neighborhood.

Before the second day of this suspense was over, Aunt Maria had begun to make herself obnoxious.  She hinted that Thurstane knew what he was about; that the river was his easiest road to his station; that, in short, he had deserted.  Clara flamed up indignantly and replied, “I know him better.”

“Why, what has he got to do with us?” reasoned Aunt Maria.  “He doesn’t belong to our party.”

“He has his men here.  He wouldn’t leave his soldiers.”

“His men!  They can take care of themselves.  If they can’t, I should like to know what they are good for.  I think it highly probable he went off of his own choice.”

“I think it highly probable you know nothing about it,” snapped Clara.  “You are incapable of judging him.”

The girl was not just now herself.  Her whole soul was concentrated in justifying, loving, and saving Thurstane; and her manner, instead of being serenely and almost lazily gentle, was unpleasantly excited.  It was as if some charming alluvial valley should suddenly give forth the steam and lava of a volcano.

Finding no sympathy in Aunt Maria, and having little confidence in the good-will of Coronado, she looked about her for help.  There was Sergeant Meyer; he had been Thurstane’s right-hand man; moreover, he looked trustworthy.  She seized the first opportunity to beckon him up to her eerie on the roof of the Casa.