The red glare from the wagon-house lighted her bedroom; she sprang inside and bolted the door.
Her chamois jacket with its loops full of cartridges hung on a peg. She got into it, seized her rifle and ran to the window just as two masked men, pushing Stormont before them, entered the house by the kitchen way.
Her own door was resounding with kicks and blows, shaking, shivering under the furious impact of boot and rifle-butt.
She ran to the bed, thrust her hand under the pillow, pulled out the case containing the Flaming Jewel, and placed it in the breast pocket of her shooting jacket.
Again she crept to the window. Only the wagon-house was burning. Somebody, however, had led Stormont's horse from the barn, and had tied it to a tree at a safe distance. It stood there, trembling, its beautiful, nervous head turned toward the burning building.
The blows upon her bedroom door had ceased; there came a loud trampling, the sound of excited voices; Quintana's sarcastic tones, clear, dominant:
"Dios! The police! Why you bring me this gendarme? What am I to do with a gentleman of the Constabulary, eh? Do you think I am fool enough to cut his throat? Well, Senor Gendarme, what are you doing here in the Dump of Clinch?"
Then Stormont's voice, clear and quiet: "What are you doing here? If you've a quarrel with Clinch, he's not here. There's only a young girl in this house."
"So?" said Quintana. "Well, that is what I expec', my frien'. It is thees lady upon whom I do myse'f the honour to call!"
Eve, listening, heard Stormont's rejoinder, still, calm, and very grave: