“I am in earnest, Doña Isidora.”
The manner of the man too truly betrayed the sincerity of his speech. Coward as he was, there was a cold cruel determination in his looks, whilst his hand was seen straying towards the hilt of his macheté.
Despite her Amazonian courage, the woman could not help a feeling of uneasiness. She saw there was a danger, with but slight chance of averting it. Something of this she had felt from the first moment of the encounter; but she had been sustained by the hope, that the unpleasant interview might be interrupted by one who would soon change its character.
During the early part of the dialogue she had been eagerly listening for the sound of a horse’s hoof—casting occasional and furtive glances through the chapparal, in the direction where she hoped to hear it.
This hope was no more. The sight of her own letter told its tale: it had not reached its destination.
Deprived of this hope—hitherto sustaining her—she next thought of retreating from the spot.
But this too presented both difficulties and dangers. It was possible for her to wheel round and gallop off; but it was equally possible for her retreat to be intercepted by a bullet. The butt of El Coyote’s pistol was as near to his hand as the hilt of his macheté.
She was fully aware of the danger. Almost any other woman would have given way to it. Not so Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos. She did not even show signs of being affected by it.
“Nonsense!” she exclaimed, answering his protestation with an air of well dissembled incredulity. “You are making sport of me, Señor. You wish to frighten me. Ha! ha! ha! Why should I fear you? I can ride as well—fling my lazo as sure and far as you, Look at this I see how skilfully I can handle it!”
While so speaking—smiling as she spoke—she had lifted the lazo from her saddle-bow and was winding it round her head, as if to illustrate her observations.