“Stillwell, do you advise that trip up into the mountains?” asked Madeline.

“I reckon I do, considerin’ everythin’.  Now, Miss Majesty, I’ve used up a lot of time explainin’.  You’ll sure keep your nerve?”

“Yes,” Madeline replied, and was surprised at herself.  “Better tell Florence.  She’ll be a power of comfort to you.  I’m goin’ now to fetch up the boys.”

Instead of returning to her room Madeline went through the office into the long corridor.  It was almost as dark as night.  She fancied she saw a slow-gliding figure darker than the surrounding gloom; and she entered upon the fulfilment of her part of the plan in something like trepidation.  Her footsteps were noiseless.  Finding the door to the kitchen, and going in, she struck lights.  Upon passing out again she made certain she discerned a dark shape, now motionless, crouching along the wall.  But she mistrusted her vivid imagination.  It took all her boldness to enable her unconcernedly and naturally to strike the corridor light.  Then she went on through her own rooms and thence into the patio.

Her guests laughingly and gladly entered into the spirit of the occasion.  Madeline fancied her deceit must have been perfect, seeing that it deceived even Florence.  They trooped merrily into the kitchen.  Madeline, delaying at the door, took a sharp but unobtrusive glance down the great, barnlike hall.  She saw nothing but blank dark space.  Suddenly from one side, not a rod distant, protruded a pale, gleaming face breaking the even blackness.  Instantly it flashed back out of sight.  Yet that time was long enough for Madeline to see a pair of glittering eyes, and to recognize them as Don Carlos’s.

Without betraying either hurry or alarm, she closed the door.  It had a heavy bolt which she slowly, noiselessly shot.  Then the cold amaze that had all but stunned her into inaction throbbed into wrath.  How dared that Mexican steal into her home!  What did he mean?  Was he one of the bandits supposed to be hidden in her house?  She was thinking herself into greater anger and excitement, and probably would have betrayed herself had not Florence, who had evidently seen her bolt the door and now read her thoughts, come toward her with a bright, intent, questioning look.  Madeline caught herself in time.

Thereupon she gave each of her guests a duty to perform.  Leading Florence into the pantry, she unburdened herself of the secret in one brief whisper.  Florence’s reply was to point out of the little open window, passing which was a file of stealthily moving cowboys.  Then Madeline lost both anger and fear, retaining only the glow of excitement.

Madeline could be gay, and she initiated the abandonment of dignity by calling Castleton into the pantry, and, while interesting him in some pretext or other, imprinting the outlines of her flour-covered hands upon the back of his black coat.  Castleton innocently returned to the kitchen to be greeted with a roar.  That surprising act of the hostess set the pace, and there followed a merry, noisy time.  Everybody helped.  The miscellaneous collection of dishes so confusingly contrived made up a dinner which they all heartily enjoyed.  Madeline enjoyed it herself, even with the feeling of a sword hanging suspended over her.