"Oh, you must not die," she whispered with quivering mouth. "If you die, I will die."
Then she checked her emotion and added, "There! Don't mind me. I am silly. Eat."
Meanwhile Coronado looked on with such a face as Iago might have worn had he felt the jealousy of Othello. For the first time he positively knew that the woman he loved was violently in love with another. He suffered so horribly that we should be bound to pity him, only that he suffered after the fashion of devils, his malignity equalling his agony. While he was in such pain that his heart ceased beating, his fingers curled like snakes around the handle of his revolver. Nothing kept him from shooting that man, yes, and that woman also, but the certainty that the deed would make him a fugitive for life, subject everywhere to the summons of the hangman.
Once, almost overcome by the temptation, he looked around for the train. It was within hearing; he thought he saw Mrs. Stanley watching him; two of his Mexicans were approaching at full speed. He dismounted, sat down upon a stone, partially covered his face with his hand, and tried to bring himself to look at the two lovers. At last, when he perceived that Thurstane was eating and Clara merely kneeling by, he walked tremulously toward them, scarcely conscious of his feet.
"Welcome to life, lieutenant," he said. "I did not wish to interrupt. Now I congratulate."
Thurstane looked at him steadily, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then put out his hand.
"It was I who discovered you," went on Coronado, as he took the lean, grimy fingers in his buckskin gauntlet.
"I know it," mumbled the young fellow; then with a visible effort he added, "Thanks."
Presently the two Mexicans pulled up with loud exclamations of joy and wonder. One of them took out of his haversack a quantity of provisions and a flask of aguardiente; and Coronado handed them to Thurstane with a smile, hoping that he would surfeit himself and die.
"No," said Clara, seizing the food. "You have eaten enough. You may drink."