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Next
morning
she
carries
out
this
determination
.
By
day-break
she
is
in
the
saddle
;
and
,
in
less
than
two
hours
after
,
riding
,
not
upon
the
direct
road
to
the
Rio
Grande
,
but
along
the
banks
of
the
Alamo
!
Why
has
she
thus
deviated
from
her
route
?
Is
she
straying
?
She
looks
not
like
one
who
has
lost
her
way
.
There
is
a
sad
expression
upon
her
countenance
,
but
not
one
of
inquiry
.
Besides
,
her
horse
steps
confidently
forward
,
as
if
under
his
rider
's
direction
,
and
guided
by
the
rein
.
Isidora
is
not
straying
.
She
has
not
lost
her
way
.
Happier
for
her
,
if
she
had
.
All
night
long
the
invalid
lay
awake
;
at
times
tranquil
,
at
times
giving
way
to
a
paroxysm
of
unconscious
passion
.
All
night
long
the
hunter
sate
by
his
bedside
,
and
listened
to
his
incoherent
utterances
.
They
but
confirmed
two
points
of
belief
already
impressed
upon
Zeb
's
mind
:
that
Louise
Poindexter
was
beloved
;
that
her
brother
had
been
murdered
!
The
last
was
a
belief
that
,
under
any
circumstances
,
would
have
been
painful
to
the
backwoodsman
.
Coupled
with
the
facts
already
known
,
it
was
agonising
.
