d
turned to Harrison.

"You see. The lady has changed her mind, senor. What will you?"

"What's that got to do with it? She's mine. Send for a priest and have
us married," the other man demanded bluntly.

"Not so fast, amigo," remonstrated Pasquale softly. "Give her time--a
few days--quien sabe?--she may change her mind again."

Harrison choked on his anger. He was suspicious of this suavity, of this
sudden respect for a girl's wishes. Since when had the old despot become
so scrupulous as to risk offending one who had served him a good deal
and might aid him in more serious matters? The prizefighter could guess
only one reason for the general's attitude. His jealousy began to smoke
at once.

"She can change her mind afterward just as well. If we're married now,
then I'm sure of her," the prizefighter insisted doggedly.

Impulsively the girl swept into that part of the room within the view of
Steve. She knelt in front of Pasquale and caught at his hand.

"Send me home--back to my mother. I'm only a girl. You don't make war on
girls, do you?" she pleaded.

Had she only known it, the very sweetness of her troubled youth, the
shadows under the starry eyes edging the wild-rose cheeks, the allure of
her lines and soft flesh, fought potently against her desire for a
safe-conduct home. The greedy, treacherous little eyes of the insurgent
chief glittered.

He shook his head. "No, senorita. That is not possible. But you shall
stay here--under the protection of Gabriel Pasquale himself. You shall
have choice--Senor Harrison if you wish, another if you prefer it so.
Take time. Perhaps--who knows?" He smiled and bowed with the gallantry
of a bear as he kissed her hand.

"No--no. I want to go home," she sobbed.

"Young ladies don't always know what is best for them. Behold, we shall
marry you to a soldier, one of rank. From the general down, you shall
have choice," Pasquale promised largely.

Harrison scowled. He did not at all like the turn things were taking.
"Not as long as I'm alive," he said savagely. "She's mine, I tell you."

The Mexican looked directly at him with a face as hard as jade. "So you
don't expect to live long, senor. Is that it? We shall all mourn. Yes,
indeed." He turned decisively to the white-faced girl. "Go to sleep,
muchacha. To-morrow we shall talk. Gabriel Pasquale is your friend. All
shall be well with you. None shall insult you on peril of his life.
Buenos!"

With a gesture of his hand h