“No,” she said, imperiously.

He shook off her hand and strode forward.

“Please don’t go!” she called, beseechingly.  But he kept on.  “Stewart!”

She ran ahead of him, intercepted him, faced him with her back against the door.  He swept out a long arm as if to brush her aside.  But it wavered and fell.  Haggard, troubled, with working face, he stood before her.

“It’s for your sake,” he expostulated.

“If it is for my sake, then do what pleases me.”

“These guerrillas will knife somebody.  They’ll burn the house.  They’ll make off with you.  They’ll do something bad unless we stop them.”

“Let us risk all that,” she importuned.

“But it’s a terrible risk, and it oughtn’t be run,” he exclaimed, passionately.  “I know best here.  Stillwell upholds me.  Let me out, Miss Hammond.  I’m going to take the boys and go after these guerrillas.”

“No!”

“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Stewart.  “Why not let me go?  It’s the thing to do.  I’m sorry to distress you and your guests.  Why not put an end to Don Carlos’s badgering?  Is it because you’re afraid a rumpus will spoil your friends’ visit?”

“It isn’t—­not this time.”

“Then it’s the idea of a little shooting at these Greasers?”

“No.”

“You’re sick to think of a little Greaser blood staining the halls of your home?”

“No!”

“Well, then, why keep me from doing what I know is best?”

“Stewart, I—­I—­” she faltered, in growing agitation.  “I’m frightened—­confused.  All this is too—­too much for me.  I’m not a coward.  If you have to fight you’ll see I’m not a coward.  But your way seems so reckless—­that hall is so dark—­the guerrillas would shoot from behind doors.  You’re so wild, so daring, you’d rush right into peril.  Is that necessary?  I think—­I mean—­I don’t know just why I feel so—­so about you doing it.  But I believe it’s because I’m afraid you—­you might be hurt.”

“You’re afraid I—­I might be hurt?” he echoed, wonderingly, the hard whiteness of his face warming, flushing, glowing.

“Yes.”

The single word, with all it might mean, with all it might not mean, softened him as if by magic, made him gentle, amazed, shy as a boy, stifling under a torrent of emotions.

Madeline thought she had persuaded him—­worked her will with him.  Then another of his startlingly sudden moves told her that she had reckoned too quickly.  This move was to put her firmly aside so he could pass; and Madeline, seeing he would not hesitate to lift her out of the way, surrendered the door.  He turned on the threshold.  His face was still working, but the flame-pointed gleam of his eyes indicated the return of that cowboy ruthlessness.

“I’m going to drive Don Carlos and his gang out of the house,” declared Stewart.  “I think I may promise you to do it without a fight.  But if it takes a fight, off he goes!”