“But he will not claim it.” Out of her simple woman’s faith she went on: “He is too good and kind to advantage himself by your misfortune. In spite of his hate for the gringos, he likes you personally. Now that you are—my husband, he will not attempt your harm.”
In view of his present clear view of Don Luis’s machinations, Seyd was not so sure. Unwilling to hurt her, he conceded: “Well, we shall see. Let us ride on down.”
“Not together, dear.” Leaning over, she caught his arm. “I must see him first alone. He will be furiously angry, of course. But the angrier the better, for just so much sooner will follow the calm.”
“But he may try—”
“—To take me from you?” She took the words out of his mouth. “He cannot. In a day, a week, a month, sooner or later, I should escape. They could not forever keep me locked up. But he will not try. You know, he stole his own wife, snatched her away while she was going to church to marry another, and he comes of a race that gained wives as often as not by the sword. He cannot blame you without condemning himself, and I am sure that he will not try. If you give me a little time to conquer him and soothe my poor scandalized mother it will come out all right. So you must go on to Santa Gertrudis now and see if there be any news of Señor Thornton. And to-morrow—you may come.”
“If you have the slightest doubt”—loath to let her out of his hands, he hesitated—“I would ride on to the station. Beautiful as is this place, and much as I have come to love it, I would rather abandon all than incur the risk.”
“But there is none, husband mine.” She looked up in his face, tenderly smiling. “He will rage and roar like an old lion, but that is all. I should be only half a woman to have come to my age without learning to manage him. Remember, for the second time you have saved my life, and, being already married, he cannot deny us. So go in peace, and”—she put up her mouth—“love.”
In spite of her reassurance, he watched her go with apprehension that took a blacker tinge when, arriving at the inn late in the afternoon, he found no word from Billy. Though the inn’s meager accommodations had not been improved by a slap from the wing tip of the wave, he remained there all night in preference to crossing and recrossing the river. With so much at stake, Santa Gertrudis could take care of itself for another day. Sleeping with anxiety for a bedfellow, he rose and was on the road at daybreak—but not a bit earlier than Francesca, who met him halfway.
“I knew you would be anxious,” she explained, “so I saddled a horse and stole away while all of San Nicolas was still asleep. But not for nothing are you to have my news. Si, it is good!
“’Twas as I said,” she went on, having received her reward. “The madre had already cried herself beyond further tears, and was glad to have me on any terms. The good uncle, of course, stormed. Never was there such a battle since the French wars, and had you been there ’twould not have lacked its killed and wounded. Until midnight we fought; then, after cursing the blood of the Irishman that has always led me astray, he gave in. ‘’Tis not for an old soldier to cross tongues with a woman,’ he growled. ‘To-morrow bring me thy man.’ But he knew that he was beaten,” she finished, confidently, “for when I kissed him he laughed in his throat and patted my hair.”