“Words!” she said with a note of disdain, and arose to her feet. She swayed slightly, and Valencia steadied her, and begged her to wait until morning, for her strength was gone and the night was late.
“Peace, woman! Who of us is sure of a morning? This minute is all the time that is ours, and––I must know.”
She leaned on Valencia as they crossed the patio, and Tula moved a seat outside the door of Marto’s room. Kit fastened a torch in the holder of the brick pillar and opened the door without being seen, and stood watching the prisoner.
Marto Cavayso, who had been pleading with Isidro, whirled only to find the barrel of another gun thrust through the carved grill in the top of the door.
“Isidro,” said Kit, “this man is to answer questions of the señora. If he is uncivil you can singe him with a bullet at your own will.”
“Many thanks, señor,” returned Isidro promptly. “That is a pleasant work to think of, for the talk of this shameless gentleman is poison to the air.”
“You!” burst out Marto, pointing a hand at Jocasta in the corridor. “You put witchcraft of hell on me, and wall me in here with an old lunatic for guard, and now–––”
Bing! A bullet from Isidro’s rifle whistled past Marto’s ear and buried itself in the adobe, scattering plaster and causing the prisoner to crouch back in the corner.
Jocasta regarded him as if waiting further speech, but none came.
“That is better,” she said. “No one wishes to do you harm, but you need a lesson very badly. Now Marto Cavayso,––if that be your name!––why did you carry me away? Was it your own doing, or were you under orders of your General Rotil?”