When, at last, she stood free upon the ground there was little in her appearance to recall the coquettish Anita. Yet, at that moment, a ringing laugh and mocking voice smote her ears:
“So? But you are well punished for your impudence, fair mistress of the pans, is it not? My Amador is a horse of sense. I knew it!”
It was Miguel, who had urged Rupert Disbrow’s “Lady Jane” to its utmost speed and had arrived in time to witness the maid’s exit from the mesquite spines, though not to aid her. Now, seeing that she was really suffering, he dismounted and added:
“But, in truth! I am sorry! That was a nasty trick of Amador—and I had esteemed him a gentleman!”
Anita shrugged her torn shoulders, then groaned:
“There are no gentlemen left at Refugio, no! Since the Señor—my master was kind—he would not jeer—”
Her voice died in a wail and Miguel exclaimed:
“Why, child, Anita! Hush, hush! There, there! So, so, my beauty!”
“Pstit! I am not a horse—not Amador—to be soothed as a baby. He is—he is diablo! and thou—his master!” she retorted. Then dropped her scarred face in her hands and again began to weep.
Miguel hated tears worse than he hated women; and he laid his hand upon her arm, asking: