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There
are
a
hundred
horsemen
,
oddly
armed
,
grotesquely
attired
--
uniform
only
in
the
coating
of
clay-coloured
dust
which
adheres
to
their
habiliments
,
and
the
stern
seriousness
observable
in
the
bearing
of
all
;
scarce
relieved
by
a
slight
show
of
curiosity
.
Though
it
is
an
entourage
to
cause
trembling
--
especially
in
a
woman
--
Isidora
does
not
betray
it
.
She
is
not
in
the
least
alarmed
.
She
anticipates
no
danger
from
those
who
have
so
unceremoniously
surrounded
her
.
Some
of
them
she
knows
by
sight
;
though
not
the
man
of
more
than
middle
age
,
who
appears
to
be
their
leader
,
and
who
confronts
,
to
question
her
.
But
she
knows
him
otherwise
.
Instinct
tells
her
he
is
the
father
of
the
murdered
man
--
of
the
woman
,
she
may
wish
to
gee
slain
,
but
assuredly
,
shamed
.
Oh
!
what
an
opportunity
!
"
Can
you
speak
French
,
mademoiselle
?
"
asks
Woodley
Poindexter
,
addressing
her
in
this
tongue
--
in
the
belief
that
it
may
give
him
a
better
chance
of
being
understood
.
"
Speak
better
Inglees
--
very
little
,
sir
.
"
"
Oh
!
English
.
So
much
the
better
for
us
.
Tell
me
,
miss
;
have
you
seen
anybody
out
here
--
that
is
--
have
you
met
any
one
,
riding
about
,
or
camped
,
or
halted
anywhere
?
"
Isidora
appears
to
reflect
,
or
hesitate
,
before
making
reply
.
The
planter
pursues
the
interrogative
,
with
such
politeness
as
the
circumstances
admit
.
"
May
I
ask
where
you
live
?
"
"
On
the
Rio
Grande
,
señor
?
"
