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It
is
a
spirit
rare
upon
earth
.
In
its
tranquil
state
,
soft
as
the
rays
of
the
Aurora
--
pure
as
the
prayer
of
a
child
;
but
when
stirred
by
love
,
--
or
rather
by
its
too
constant
concomitant
--
it
becomes
proud
and
perilous
as
the
light
of
Lucifer
!
Of
this
spirit
Louise
Poindexter
was
the
truest
type
.
Where
love
was
the
lure
,
to
wish
was
to
have
,
or
perish
in
the
attempt
to
obtain
.
Jealousy
resting
upon
doubt
was
neither
possible
to
her
nature
,
or
compatible
with
her
existence
.
She
must
find
proofs
to
destroy
,
or
confirm
it
--
proofs
stronger
than
those
already
supplied
by
the
contents
of
the
strayed
epistle
,
which
,
after
all
,
were
only
presumptive
.
Armed
with
this
,
she
was
in
a
position
to
seek
them
;
and
they
were
to
be
sought
upon
the
Alamo
.
*
*
*
The
first
hour
of
sunrise
saw
her
in
the
saddle
,
riding
out
from
the
enclosures
of
Casa
del
Corvo
,
and
taking
a
trail
across
the
prairie
already
known
to
her
.
On
passing
many
a
spot
,
endeared
to
her
--
sacred
by
some
of
the
sweetest
souvenirs
of
her
life
--
her
thoughts
experienced
more
than
one
revulsion
.
These
were
moments
when
she
forgot
the
motive
that
originally
impelled
her
to
the
journey
--
when
she
thought
only
of
reaching
the
man
she
loved
,
to
rescue
him
from
enemies
that
might
be
around
him
!
Ah
!
these
moments
--
despite
the
apprehension
for
her
lover
's
safety
--
were
happy
,
when
compared
with
those
devoted
to
the
far
more
painful
contemplation
of
his
treachery
.
From
the
point
of
starting
to
that
of
her
destination
,
it
was
twenty
miles
.
It
might
seem
a
journey
,
to
one
used
to
European
travelling
--
that
is
in
the
saddle
.
To
the
prairie
equestrian
it
is
a
ride
of
scarce
two
hours
--
quick
as
a
scurry
across
country
,
after
a
stag
or
fox
.
Even
with
an
unwilling
steed
it
is
not
tedious
;
but
with
that
lithe-limbed
,
ocellated
creature
,
Luna
,
who
went
willingly
towards
her
prairie
home
,
it
was
soon
over
--
too
soon
,
perhaps
,
for
the
happiness
of
her
rider
.
