"You see. The lady has changed her mind, señor. What will you?"
"What's that got to do with it? She's mine. Send for a priest and have us married," the other man demanded bluntly.
"Not so fast, amigo," remonstrated Pasquale softly. "Give her time—a few days—quien sabe?—she may change her mind again."
Harrison choked on his anger. He was suspicious of this suavity, of this sudden respect for a girl's wishes. Since when had the old despot become so scrupulous as to risk offending one who had served him a good deal and might aid him in more serious matters? The prizefighter could guess only one reason for the general's attitude. His jealousy began to smoke at once.
"She can change her mind afterward just as well. If we're married now, then I'm sure of her," the prizefighter insisted doggedly.
Impulsively the girl swept into that part of the room within the view of Steve. She knelt in front of Pasquale and caught at his hand.
"Send me home—back to my mother. I'm only a girl. You don't make war on girls, do you?" she pleaded.
Had she only known it, the very sweetness of her troubled youth, the shadows under the starry eyes edging the wild-rose cheeks, the allure of her lines and soft flesh, fought potently against her desire for a safe-conduct home. The greedy, treacherous little eyes of the insurgent chief glittered.
He shook his head. "No, señorita. That is not possible. But you shall stay here—under the protection of Gabriel Pasquale himself. You shall have choice—Señor Harrison if you wish, another if you prefer it so. Take time. Perhaps—who knows?" He smiled and bowed with the gallantry of a bear as he kissed her hand.
"No—no. I want to go home," she sobbed.