er head, swaying unsteadily on her feet. Tears streamed from
her eyes and ran down over her white cheeks and into her parched mouth.
In that instant there was room for no fear, no terror; they would come
later, frantic, unbearable. Now there was only pride, pride and faith
and clean joy. "Jimsy! _Jimsy!_" Her legs gave way beneath her and she
slipped to the floor, but she did not cease her hoarse and pitiful
shouting.

"How could he?" said Carter Van Meter. "It was impossible--in that
condition! Honor, he couldn't----"

But Yaqui Juan strode to the little table where the empty decanter
stood, stooped, picked up a rough jug of decorative Mexican pottery from
an under shelf. Then, pausing until he saw that all their eyes were upon
him, he slowly poured its contents back into the decanter. The liquor
rose and rose until it reached the exact spot which Carter had pointed
out to Honor--the top of the design engraved on the glass. "_Mira_!"
said the Indian, sternly.

"_God_," said Carter Van Meter.

"He was acting! He was acting!" wept Mrs. King.

But Jimsy's Skipper sat on the floor, waving her arms, swaying her body
like a yell leader, still shouting his name in her cracked voice, and
then, crazily, her eyes wide as if she visualized a field, far away, a
game, a gallant figure speeding to victory, she sang:

_You can't beat L. A. High!_
_You can't beat L. A. High!_
_Use your team to get up steam_
_But you cant beat L. A. High!_

CHAPTER XVI

The Indian looked at Honor and the bitterness in his eyes melted a
little. "_Esta una loca_," he said.

It was quite true. She was a madwoman for the moment. They tried to
control her, to calm her, but she did not see or hear them. "Let her
alone," said Mrs. King. "At least she is happy, Carter. She'll realize
his danger in a minute, poor thing." She turned to Yaqui Juan at the
sound of his voice. He told her that he was going out after his young
lord. He was going to find Senor Don Diego, alive or dead. He had
promised him not to leave the locked room for two hours; he had kept his
word as long as he could endure it. Senor Don Diego had had time to come
back unless he had been captured. Now he, Yaqui Juan, whom the young
master had once saved, would go to him, to bring him back, or to die
with him. The solemn, grandiloquent words had nothing of melodrama in
them, falling from his grave lips. He took no pains to conceal his deep
scorn for them