All of the little barriers with a stranger were forgotten, and the shielding scarf fell away from her face and bosom, and even with the shadowed emerald eyes closed, Kit Rhodes thought her the most perfect thing in beauty he had ever seen.
He hated himself for the pain he was forcing on her as he steadily followed the bullet upward and upward until it lay in his hand.
She did not faint, as he feared she might, but fell back in the chair, while Valencia busied herself with the ointment and bandage, and Tula, at a word from Kit, poured her a cup of wine.
“Drink,” he said, “if only a little, señora. Your strength has served you well, but it needs help now.”
She swallowed a little of the wine, and drew the scarf about her, and after a little opened her eyes and looked at him. He smiled at her approvingly, and offered her the bullet.
“It may be you will want it to go on some shrine to a patron saint, señora,” he suggested, but she did not take it, only looked at him steadily with those wonderful eyes, green with black lashes, shining out of her marble Madonna-like face.
“My patron saint traveled the trail with you, Señor Americano, and the bullet is witness. Let me see it.”
He gave it into her open hand where she balanced it thoughtfully.
“So near the mark, yet went aside,” she murmured. “Could that mean there is yet any use left in the world for me?”
“Beauty has its own use in the world, señora; that is why rose gardens are planted.”