“Miguel was not worth so much,” argued Anastacio. “He was little and thin. And the pearl——” His eyes rested upon it, where it flashed on the hand at her side.
“You shall not have the pearl,” she declared, “not if you die asking for it. You killed my pretty Miguel—and it was not even on a feast-day. So now, this is how you pay.” As she crossed the floor with slow grace, she smiled mockingly.
Again his look rested longingly on the round whiteness of his gift. “Ah, Paloma,” he said tenderly, “you but increase my passion as you storm. Little dove, your sweet mouth is the colour of pepper-tree berries. Your eyes——”
“Have done with my mouth and my eyes!” ordered Paloma, pausing against the window. But she spoke perhaps a shade less angrily than before. “They are not for you. Go hunt among the Indian girls for a wife. One of these you can lead about on a rope, as you do your cows. But, ah, I pity the one you would choose! A squaw is too good for you—much too good.”
“I must speak of your beauty,” insisted Anastacio. “It fills my eyes like the light of the sun. When I shall see it no more the night will fall for me. O my Paloma!” And he took one step toward her.
She waved him back with her two hands. “Keep your compliments!” she said haughtily. “I do not want them. And take yourself off. I never wish to see you again.”
But Anastacio, undaunted, approached another step or two. “Do not be cruel, Paloma,” he begged. “Say farewell kindly to me, sweet dove. And before I go let me—yes, be merciful—let me kiss your little hand.”
“No! No! I say!” She leaned farther away, and struck at him as he came—though not hard.
With a tender cry of “Ah! my beautiful one!” he caught her two flying hands in his. Then, holding all her fingers firmly, he bent his dark head down to her left hand swiftly. The next moment, he retreated, almost with a leap, swung the door open, closed it behind him, ran swiftly to where the sheriff was waiting for him on the path by the chapel, threw himself on to a horse, and led the way at a gallop to the river.
Paloma pursued him, and so fleetly that her hand all but touched the tapadero of his stirrup as he rode into the river. Those who saw her then, standing at the edge of the stream, splashed upon face and dress with the yellow water sent into the air by his horse’s hoofs, were appalled as they looked at her. She was livid with anger and screamed wild things that no one understood—execrations and threats. Then she fell down at the ford in a very spasm of wrath.