Then close before her eyes burst another blinding red flash, and close at her ears bellowed another report. Unable to stand, Madeline slipped down onto the bench. Her drifting faculties refused clearly to record what transpired during the next few moments; presently, however, as her mind steadied somewhat, she heard, though as in a dream, the voice of the padre hurrying over strange words. It ceased, and then the cowboy’s voice stirred her.
“Lady, say Si—Si. Say it—quick! Say it—Si!”
From sheer suggestion, a force irresistible at this moment when her will was clamped by panic, she spoke the word.
“And now, lady—so we can finish this properly—what’s your name?”
Still obeying mechanically, she told him.
He stared for a while, as if the name had awakened associations in a mind somewhat befogged. He leaned back unsteadily. Madeline heard the expulsion of his breath, a kind of hard puff, not unusual in drunken men.
“What name?” he demanded.
“Madeline Hammond. I am Alfred Hammond’s sister.”
He put his hand up and brushed at an imaginary something before his eyes. Then he loomed over her, and that hand, now shaking a little, reached out for her veil. Before he could touch it, however, she swept it back, revealing her face.
“You’re—not—Majesty Hammond?”