VALENCIA ACCEPTS A RING
Manuel found Valencia pacing up and down the porch of the hotel in a
fever of impatience. Instantly at sight of him she ran forward quickly.
"Where have you been? What have you done with Sebastian? Why did you
leave without telling me about it?" she demanded.
"One question at a time, my cousin," he answered, smiling at her. "But
let us walk while I tell you."
She fell into step beside him, moving with the strong, lissom tread that
came from controlled and deliberate power.
"What is it you have to tell? If you were called away, why did you not
leave a message for me?" she asked, a little imperiously.
"I wasn't called away, Valencia. You were excited and angry. My opinion
was that Sebastian would speak if the matter was put to him right. So I
cut the rope that tied him and we ran away through the back door of the
hotel."
Her dark eyes, proud and passionate, began to smoulder. But the voice
with which she answered him was silken smooth.
"I see. You pretended to be working with me--and then you betrayed me.
Is that it?"
"If you like," he said with a little shrug. "I backed my judgment
against your impatience. And it turns out that I was right."
"How? What has happened? Where is Sebastian?"
"He is galloping toward the hills as fast as he can--at least I hope he
is. What happened is that he told me where Gordon is hidden."
"Where?"
"At your house. When you were there to-day you must have passed within
twenty feet of him."
"But--do you mean that Pablo and Sebastian took him there?"
"Exactly. They did not foresee that you would come to town, Valencia."
He added, after a moment: "I have seen Mr. Gordon, talked with him, and
released him. At this moment he is in your brother's room, probably
asleep."
All the sharpness had died out of the young woman's voice when she
turned to her cousin and spoke with a humility rare to her.
"Forgive me, Manuel. I always know best about everything. I drive ahead
and must have my own way, even when it is not the wise one. You did just
right to ignore me."
She laid her hand on his coat sleeve pleadingly, and he lifted it to his
lips.
"_Niña_ ... the Queen can do no wrong. But I saw you were driving
Sebastian to stubbornness. I tried to let him see we meant to be his
friends if he would let us."
"Yes, you were right. Tell me everything, please." She paused just a
moment before she said quietly: "But first, what about Mr. Gordon? He is
... uninjured?"
"Beaten and mauled and starved, but still of the gayest courage,"
answered the Spaniard with enthusiasm. "Did I not say that he was a
hero? My cousin, I say it again. The fear of death is not in his heart."
He did not see the gleam in her dark eyes, the flush that beat into her
dusky face. "Starved as well as beaten, Manuel?"
"They were trying to force him to give up his claim to the valley. But
he--as I live the American is hard as Gibraltar."
"They dared to starve him--to torture him. I shall see that they are
punished," she cried with the touch of feminine ferocity that is the
heritage of the south.
"No need, Valencia," returned Pesquiera with a dry little laugh. "Mr.
Gordon has promised himself to attend to that."
He told her the story from first to last. Intently she listened, scarce
breathing until he had finished.
Manuel had told the tale with scrupulous fairness, but already her
sympathies were turning.
"And he wouldn't agree not to prosecute?" she asked.
"No. It is his right to do so if he likes, Valencia."
She brushed this aside with an impatient wave of her hand. "Oh, his
right! Doesn't he owe something to us--to me--and especially to you?"
"No, he owes me nothing. What I did was done for you, and not for him,"
the Spaniard replied instantly.
"Then to me at least he is in debt. I shall ask him to drop the
prosecution."
"He is what his people call straight. But he is hard--hard as jade."
They were walking along a dark lane unlighted save by the stars.
Valencia turned to him impetuously.
"Manuel, you are good. You do not like this man, but you save him
because--because my heart is torn when my people do wrong. For me you
take much trouble--you risk much. How can I thank you?"
"_Niña mia_, I am thanked if you are pleased. It is your love I seek,
Heart of mine." He spoke tremulously, taking her hands in his.
For the beat of a heart she hesitated. "You have it. Have I not given my
word that--after the American was saved----?"
He kissed her. Hers was a virginal soul, but full-blooded. An
unsuspected passion beat in her veins. Not for nothing did she have the
deep, languorous eyes, the perfect scarlet lips, the sumptuous grace of
an artist's ideal. Fires lay banked within her in spite of the fine
purity of her nature. Nature had poured into her symmetrical mold a rich
abundance of what we call sex.
The kisses of Manuel stirred within her new and strange emotions, though
she accepted rather than returned them. A faint vague unease chilled her
heart. Was it because she had been immodest in letting him so far have
his way?
When they returned to the hotel Manuel's ring was on her finger. She was
definitely engaged to him.
It was long before she slept. She thought of Manuel, the man chosen it
seemed by Fate to be her mate. But she thought, too, of the lithe,
broad-shouldered young American whose eyes could be so tender and again
so hard. Why was it he persisted in filling her mind so much of the
time? Why did she both admire him and resent his conduct, trust him to
the limit one hour and distrust the next? Why was it that he--an
unassuming American without any heroics--rather than her affianced lover
seemed to radiate romance as he moved? She liked Manuel very much, she
respected him greatly, trusted him wholly, but--it was this curly-headed
youth of her mother's race that set her heart beating fast a dozen times
a day.
She resolved resolutely to put him out of her mind. Had he not proved
himself unworthy by turning the head of Juanita, whom he could not
possibly expect to marry? Was not Manuel in every way worthy of her
love? Her finger touched the diamond ring upon her hand. She would keep
faith in thought as well as in word and deed.
At last she fell asleep--and dreamed of a blond, gray-eyed youth
fighting for his life against a swarm of attacking Mexicans.