e. 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.

"_Nina_ ... 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 ow