"Your little flowers," sneered Drennen, "you can keep."
He caught a murderous gleam from Garcia's eyes.
"The man who would touch them, señor," the Mexican said softly, "would die if I have but my hands to kill!"
"And now, my fine Countess Ygerne," mocked Drennen, coming a step toward her. "Have you still your nice little habit …"
As though in answer her hand had sped toward her bosom. But Drennen was too close to her, too quick and too strong. His grip set heavy, like steel, upon her wrist, he whipped out her weapon and tossed it to lie beside Garcia's.
"You brute," she said coolly.
He regarded her in silence, insolently. His eyes were bright and inexorable with their cold triumph.
"So," he said in a little, having passed over her remark just as he had ignored Garcia's, "in all of your lying to me there was some grain of truth! There was a Bellaire treasure and you have found it."
"Yes," she cried passionately, her hands clenched and grown bloodlessly white. "And I'll spend every cent of it to make you suffer for the things …"
"Not so fast," he taunted her. "Do you guess what I am going to do? Do you know that I am the one who is going to deal out the suffering? There is nothing in God's world you love … except it be yourself … as you love gold! To find is one thing; to keep is another."