“Maybe so. But I’m beginning to see the Don’s game. And, Miss Hammond, I—It’s awful for me to think what you’d suffer if Don Carlos got you over the line. I know these low-caste Mexicans. I’ve been among the peons—the slaves.”
“Stewart, don’t let Don Carlos get me,” replied Madeline, in sweet directness.
She saw him shake, saw his throat swell as he swallowed hard, saw the hard fierceness return to his face.
“I won’t. That’s why I’m going after him.”
“But I forbade you to start a fight deliberately.”
“Then I’ll go ahead and start one without your permission,” he replied shortly, and again he wheeled.
This time, when Madeline caught his arm she held to it, even after he stopped.
“No,” she said, imperiously.
He shook off her hand and strode forward.
“Please don’t go!” she called, beseechingly. But he kept on. “Stewart!”