while we will go to Narvaez and report that she is slain."

Christopher now discovered that one of the men held a dog by a stout cord. The furious animal set up a howl that was calculated to freeze the blood in one's veins. The Spaniard released the bloodhound, and it bounded away on the trail of the fugitive slave while its masters went back to St. Jago.

"The beast shall not tear the slave," cried Christopher, his eyes filling with tears. "I will slay it."

Then he gave chase to shoot the dog with his crossbow. The occasional baying of the beast told him the course in which it was going. Two or three times he came in sight of the dog and raised his weapon to send a bolt to its heart, while it paused for a moment in doubt, sniffing the ground and wagging its tail, but each time it found the trail again, and bounded away with howls of

rage.

"I will follow it from one end of the island to the other or save the victim.”

The fugitive had been wounded by the shot from the matchlock; for Christopher saw an occasional drop of blood on the grass or leaves along the path. He had crossed a ravine, when just over the hill he heard a terrible shriek, and the howl of the beast indicated that the fugitive had been

found. Christopher flew with all possible speed over the hill, through the mahogany trees. At last he came upon a sight calculated to melt a heart of stone. An Indian woman, who, despite years of suffering and deprivation, was still beautiful, held a child two or three years old in her wounded arm, and beat off a dog with a stick which she had snatched from the ground. She was unable long to resist the attacks of the furious beast, and, even as the boy knelt and aimed his crossbow, it leaped upon her, tearing her side with its awful fangs. With a shriek, she dropped the child.

"Fly, Christoval, for your life!" she cried in Spanish.

Too much horrified to move, the child stood rooted to the spot, and the dog continued to rend the woman. Christopher Estevan aimed his crossbow at the dog's side, and sent a bolt whizzing to the mark. Though mortally wounded, the furious animal continued to rend the woman, until Christopher rushed upon it and stabbed it to the heart with his dagger. For a moment the lad was at a loss what to do. The woman had swooned and the child stood sobbing with terror. He discovered that it was but a short distance to Zuna's cave, the place of refuge for fugitive slaves, and started to go there for assistance. Fortunately, he met one

of his mother's stout negroes, and had him carry the wounded woman to the cavern, while he took the little girl in his arms.

The cavern was reached and the unfortunate woman placed on a couch of skins, while Christopher sent for his mother, whom he considered superior to any surgeon on earth. The old Peruvian understood some of the arts of healing, but an examination of the wound convinced her that the slave must die.

Christina Estevan arrived at the cavern, bringing with her a bottle of wine and some healing ointments, while a negro followed bearing a basket of food. Christopher told his mother all he knew of the terrible affair.

"It was very brave and generous of you to defend the poor woman, "the señora said at the con

clusion of his story.

The woman took some nourishment, and, becoming stronger, looked about her.

"Where is my little Christoval?" she asked. "Here," Christopher Estevan answered, leading the child to its dying mother.

She took its little hand in her own, while tears started from her soft, dark eyes and rolled down her once beautiful cheeks. Señora Estevan was deeply moved.

"Good woman, what will you have us do with

your child, for your hours are numbered?" she asked.

"Take her and make her your own," was the faint, heart-broken response. "God in heaven grant that she may not be as miserable as her mother has been."

"Who are you?" asked the señora.

"The child of a king, and the wife of a nobleman. I lived at Darien; my father was Careta the cacique; my husband and that child's father was Vasco Nuñez de Balboa,"

"And you are Fulvia, Balboa's Indian wife?"

"How came you here, and why were you chased by the bloodhound?" asked Christina.

"I was a slave."

"To whom?”

"Narvaez."

Nothing had been heard of Fulvia since the execution of Balboa, and her romantic story, once so well known in Cuba, had been almost forgotten.

The dying woman fixed her eyes on the kind faces bending over her.

"They killed him because he loved me more than the governor's daughter," she said. "He died for me, and I am going to him. He told me of a God to whom the soul went after death. He has

gone to that God, and I shall follow. But for leaving our child, I would rejoice.”

"Tell me your sad story, poor woman, for I have only heard part of your wrongs."

She gave Fulvia another drink of wine, while she sought to stop the flow of blood from the gaping wound in her side. Little Christoval gazed on the agonized features of her mother, and, though she realized that death would soon make her an orphan, she gave no outcry. She still clung to young Estevan as if she depended on him for protection.

The dying woman fixed her eyes on Christina. "Would you hear my tale of woe and wrong?" she asked. "Listen, and learn what a devil jealous envy and hatred may make of a man, even a Spaniard. Balboa, was good, brave, and noble, and he loved me. I followed him through many of

his terrible marches and still more terrible battles. My love was as potent in protecting him from poisoned darts, as was his quilted armor. The governor came and asked him to abandon me for his daughter

A paroxysm of pain seized her, and for several moments she was unable to speak. As soon as it had passed she resumed:

"But he would not give me up.

He preferred

death with me, to life and honors with the daugh

ter of the governor.

He said I was more to him