From the procession Culvera saluted Yeager ironically. "Buenos and adios, señor."
The man to whom he spoke did not even know the Mexican was there. His eyes and his mind were following the girl who was being driven to her doom.
From out of the crowd edging the walk a man stepped. It was Adam Holcomb. He stood directly in front of Pasquale and his bride, blocking the way. There was a strange light in his eyes. It was as if he looked from the present far into the future, as if somehow he were a god, an Olympian who held in his hand the shears of destiny.
The general, still furious, flung an angry look at him. "Well?" he demanded harshly.
"I want to ask the lady a question, general."
Impatient rage boiled out of Pasquale in an imperious gesture of his arm. "Afterward, captain. You shall ask her a hundred. Move aside."
"I'll ask it now. This wedding doesn't go on until I hear from the young lady that she is willing," he announced.
Ruth tried to run forward to him, but the iron grip of the Mexican stayed her. "Save me," she cried.
"By God! I will."
"Arrest that man," ordered Pasquale in a passion.