“Hard names do not injure me, señorita, in the hour of my success; and, as I told you before, you are beautiful when aroused and angry. ’Twas a pretty fight your friends put up here at the mission, and cost us many men, but there was only one end possible. Have you heard of my exploit, señorita? And that reminds me—I was accepted as a friend by the men in the plaza, so you must not have told them of our little interview out at the rancho.”
“I told them nothing,” she said.
“Hah! You had that much affection for me, then? You loved your family name that much?”
“But I regret now that I did not,” she answered.
“It would have been the same had you told. It was a great trick we played. Hah! Like fools they swallowed the bait. I broke over the hill and ran, with hostiles pursuing and firing at me. Those at the wall helped me inside, and I gasped out that I had been held for torture and had made my escape. It was a pretty bit of acting, I assure you. Then another attack—and while all were busy it was an easy matter to slip into the storehouse, put the guard out of the way and throw open the window. In my friends tumbled—to take the defenders in the rear. Poor fools!”
“I would to God I had told them!” she cried.
“But you did not, eh? Why not make the best of matters, señorita? I am master and I have said you are to be my bride. Why not surrender gracefully, when there is nothing else left to do?”
“There is something else left to do,” she answered. “There always is death waiting.”
Now she stood up and faced him, and he saw that she clutched a poniard in her hand. The terror had gone out of her face, and in its place was cool determination. Her lips were set tightly, her bosom heaved with emotion. There was no doubt in the mind of the man that the girl before him would plunge that knife into her heart. He knew the proud breed of the Fernandez.
“There is always death, and it will be welcome,” she went on. “Why should I live? Do you think, Rojerio Rocha, you ever could claim me for wife? Do you think I would mate with a renegade murderer whose hands are stained with loyal blood? Can I live, even if I escape you, with the knowledge that men and women know one of my family has done such a thing?”