ciousness of his act, he
placed the symbol in his jacket, over his breast.

Tiburcio touched him on the shoulder. "I'll go now, and bring her
father," he said.

"Yes," returned the other vaguely, stumbling to his feet.

"It's going to kill the old man," murmured Tiburcio, "or--God, if it
should _not_ kill him! He is a coward, but once he slapped you,
Rodrigo, for so much as looking at her. And now, the Virgin help--may
the Virgin help whoever's concerned in this!--But here, you must go, do
you hear?"

"Yes."

"Then go, go!"

"Yes," said Rodrigo again, moving slowly away.

"By the river, remember. You'll find your horse there."

"Captain Maurel's, the fine black one?"

"Yes, I slipped it out of the stables for you."

"The fine black one?"

"Yes, yes, hombre!"

"And--and she never--she never saw--how magnifico I look on--on that
fine black horse."

He was still muttering as he reeled and staggered down the hill.

When he was gone, and no alarm of sentinels rang out, Tiburcio took off
his serape and laid it over the dark blot on the stones. Then he too
stole away, to tell her father.

CHAPTER XXI

THE RED MONGREL

"Be this the whetstone of your sword; let grief
Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it."
--_Macbeth_.

"Where," inquired Din Driscoll, with a benevolent interest in their
doing the thing right, "is the judge advocate?"

Colonel Miguel Lopez resented what he took for a patronizing concern. It
festered his complacency, for his was the code of the bowed neck to
those above and the boot-tip for those below. Luckily for him, he did
not strike the helpless prisoner. He turned to his judge's bench
instead, which was none other than the frayed and stately sofa of honor
from the hacienda sala, deemed requisite to his dignity. The satin
upholstery contrasted grotesquely with the adobe walls. Pungent tallow
dips lighted the granary to a dull yellow, and mid the sluggish tobacco
clouds were a shrinking prisoner in clerical black, and the mildly
interested prisoner in gray, and red uniforms surrounding.

Lopez flung his sword across the empty box that was to serve as desk,
and filled the crimson seat with pompous menace. Lopez was a Mexican,
but did not look it. He had red hair and a florid skin, and he was
large, with great feet and coarse hands. Yet the high cheek bones of an
Indian were his. The contrast of coloring and features