Senora Dolores flew to her aid; then turning, holding her lantern on high, her shrill voice rang out in fury:
“Look at the monstrous work your son has wrought, Pedro Ruiz! Look! Tear off that mantle, senor!” she said, whirling upon another form now slowly rising from the earth. “Coward! murderer that you are! It is you who have ruined this boy and made him what he is!”
“Hush! You fool! there lies your daughter's betrayer. Leon would have been coward indeed if he had not punished him.”
“Oh, you lie! She never saw him alone in her life!”
“Ask your son,” was the sneering answer. “Ask José, too.”
“She was with him—in his tent—the last night he was here; I swear it!” cried José.
“Mother,” cried the girl, “listen, it was but to warn him—I heard the plot—I heard all. I rushed to him only to tell him of the danger. Mother, believe me. And I dare not tell it even to you, for fear—for fear of him.” And she pointed to the fierce, scowling face of the old Mexican, now striding forward, knife in hand.
“No, Pedro—back! You shall not harm her! No!” and the mother hurled herself before her husband.
“Out of the way!” was the hissing answer, “or you, too, feel my knife. Ah, traitress!”
“O my God! help! There will be murder here! Pedro, husband! O, villain, she is not your child! You shall not kill!” And then a piercing shriek rang out upon the night. But at the same instant there came the rush of hoofs without—a rush of panting men; a brawny trooper sprang into the summer house and with one blow of his revolver butt sent Pedro staggering into a corner, his knife falling from his nerveless hand. A dark, agile figure leaped for the doorway, with muttered curse. And then in came old Rawlins, somewhat “blown,” but preternaturally cool, and the doctor close behind.