They were growing nearer and nearer to the camp, another mile or so and they would be back. Skye felt her heart begin to throb at the thought of climbing up the stone stairs to the caves.

They were like the web of some monstrous spider, she thought a little hysterically. She remembered the fire in El Diablo’s eyes as he had come towards her that morning, intending to kiss her.

She had saved herself then by the bitterness of her attack upon him, but she would not be able to save herself that evening, when she must put on one of her low-cut gowns for his delight and delectation.

She might be a slave in some Eastern market, she had no more choice of freedom than those poor black negroes who, less than a century ago, had been brought here in the slave ships from their homes in Africa. She remembered what fate had been waiting for the younger and better-looking women and the thought made her quiver with a sudden horror.

At that moment a shout interrupted their jogging homeward trot.

“Ja-guá! Ja-guá!”

It was a man who yelled to them. El Diablo turned the head of their small column to ride towards him.

As they drew nearer, they saw that he was an Indian and apparently known to them, for one man riding at the back spoke his name.

He waved his arms, talking volubly in his own language, which Skye did not understand, and they followed him towards some rocks. Skye had a quick glimpse of a man lying there mauled and bleeding as if from the claws of a large animal.

Then, as the men all dismounted, El Diablo amongst them, she realised that her chance had come. They all had their backs to her, hurrying towards the fallen man.

She wheeled her horse, but was wise enough not to gallop away immediately.

Instead she moved quietly for a short way over the soft grass and then, bringing her whip down sharply on the mare’s flank, started her off into a wild gallop.

She was quite an appreciable way from the dismounted gauchos before she heard a shout.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw that someone had seen her and the men were all staring after her.

Headlong she galloped wildly, crouching low in the saddle, the wind blowing away her hat and whistling riotously through her hair.

The entrance to the camp lay ahead, but Skye turned South, knowing that she must keep to the plain, hoping to cross the range lower down when she had thrown off her pursuers.

She did not look back again and yet she was sure that they were coming after her. On she went, keeping beside the river for a little while and then plunging across it when she saw a shallow place where cows must have crossed habitually.