that was real, that threatened she knew
not what. She tried to wrench free, feeling hot all over at being
handled by this drunken brute. Poise, dignity, culture--all the
acquired habits of character--fled before the instinct to fight. She was
athletic. She fought. She struggled desperately. But he forced her back
with hands of iron. She had never known a man could be so strong. And
then it was the man's coolly smiling face, the paralyzing strangeness
of his manner, more than his strength, that weakened Madeline until she
sank trembling against the bench.

"What--do you--mean?" she panted.

"Dearie, ease up a little on the bridle," he replied, gaily.

Madeline thought she must be dreaming. She could not think clearly. It
had all been too swift, too terrible for her to grasp. Yet she not
only saw this man, but also felt his powerful presence. And the shaking
priest, the haze of blue smoke, the smell of powder--these were not
unreal.

Then close before her eyes burst another blinding red flash, and close
at her ears bellowed another report. Unable to stand, Madeline slipped
down onto the bench. Her drifting faculties refused clearly to record
what transpired during the next few moments; presently, however, as her
mind steadied somewhat, she heard, though as in a dream, the voice of
the padre hurrying over strange words. It ceased, and then the cowboy's
voice stirred her.

"Lady, say Si--Si. Say it--quick! Say it--Si!"

From sheer suggestion, a force irresistible at this moment when her will
was clamped by panic, she spoke the word.

"And now, lady--so we can finish this properly--what's your name?"

Still obeying mechanically, she told him.

He stared for a while, as if the name had awakened associations in a
mind somewhat befogged. He leaned back unsteadily. Madeline heard the
expulsion of his breath, a kind of hard puff, not unusual in drunken
men.

"What name?" he demanded.

"Madeline Hammond. I am Alfred Hammond's sister."

He put his hand up and brushed at an imaginary something before his
eyes. Then he loomed over her, and that hand, now shaking a little,
reached out for her veil. Before he could touch it, however, she swept
it back, revealing her face.

"You're--not--Majesty Hammond?"

How strange--stranger than anything that had ever happened to her
before--was it to hear that name on the lips of this cowboy! It was a
name by which she was familiarly known, though only those nearest and
dearest