He turned slowly back with baffled anger and vindictiveness.  However, he had prevented something, although he knew not what.  The principal had got away, but he had identified his confederate, and for the first time held a clue to his mysterious visitant.  There was no use to alarm the household, which did not seem to have been disturbed.  The trespassers were far away by this time, and the attempt would hardly be repeated that night.  He made his way quietly back to the corral, let loose his horse, and regained the casa unobserved.  He unlocked the arched door in the wall, reentered the darkened passage, stopped a moment to open the door of the boudoir, glance at the closely fastened casement, and extinguish the still burning candle, and, relocking the door securely, made his way to his own room.

But he could not sleep.  The whole incident, over so quickly, had nevertheless impressed him deeply, and yet like a dream.  The strange yell of the vacquero still rang in his ears, but with an unearthly and superstitious significance that was even more dreamlike in its meaning.  He awakened from a fitful slumber to find the light of morning in the room, and Incarnacion standing by his bedside.

The yellow face of the steward was greenish with terror, and his lips were dry.

“Get up, Senor Clarencio; get up at once, my master.  Strange things have happened.  Mother of God protect us!”

Clarence rolled to his feet, with the events of the past night struggling back upon his consciousness.

“What mean you, Nascio?” he said, grasping the man’s arm, which was still mechanically making the sign of the cross, as he muttered incoherently.  “Speak, I command you!”

“It is Jose, the little vacquero, who is even now at the padre’s house, raving as a lunatic, stricken as a madman with terror!  He has seen him,—­the dead alive!  Save us!”

“Are you mad yourself, Nascio?” said Clarence.  “Whom has he seen?”

“Whom?  God help us! the old padron—­Senor Peyton himself!  He rushed towards him here, in the patio, last night—­out of the air, the sky, the ground, he knew not,—­his own self, wrapped in his old storm cloak and hat, and riding his own horse,—­erect, terrible, and menacing, with an awful hand upholding a rope—­so!  He saw him with these eyes, as I see you.  What he said to him, God knows!  The priest, perhaps, for he has made confession!”

In a flash of intelligence Clarence comprehended all.  He rose grimly and began to dress himself.

“Not a word of this to the women,—­to any one, Nascio, dost thou understand?” he said curtly.  “It may be that Jose has been partaking too freely of aguardiente,—­it is possible.  I will see the priest myself.  But what possesses thee?  Collect thyself, good Nascio.”

But the man was still trembling.

“It is not all,—­Mother of God! it is not all, master!” he stammered, dropping to his knees and still crossing himself.  “This morning, beside the corral, they find the horse of Pedro Valdez splashed and spattered on saddle and bridle, and in the stirrup,—­dost thou hear? the stirrup,—­hanging, the torn-off boot of Valdez!  Ah, God!  The same as his!  Now do you understand?  It is his vengeance.  No!  Jesu forgive me! it is the vengeance of God!”