“But oh, my friend—­one thing!” she whispered, when she had a little regained her self-possession.  “I must ask Munoz.”

“Your grandfather?  Yes.”

“But what if he refuses?” she added, looking anxiously in his eyes.  She was beginning to lay her troubles on his shoulders, as if he were already her husband.

“I will try to please him,” replied the young fellow, gazing with almost equal anxiety at her.  It was the beautiful union of the man-soul and woman-soul, asking courage and consolation the one of the other, and not only asking but receiving.

“Oh!  I think you must please him,” said Clara, forgetting how Munoz had driven out his daughter for marrying an American.  “He can’t help but like you.”

“God bless you, my darling!” whispered Thurstane, worshipping her for worshipping him.

After a while Clara thought of Texas Smith, and shuddered out, “But oh, how many dangers!  Oh, my friend, how will you be safe?”

“Leave that to me,” he replied, comprehending her at once.  “I will take care of that man.”

“Do be prudent.”

“I will.  For your sake, my dear child, I promise it.  Well, now we must part.  I must rouse no suspicions.”

“Yes.  We must be prudent.”

He was about to leave her when a new and terrible thought struck him, and made him look at her as though they were about to part forever.

“If Munoz leaves you his fortune,” he said firmly, “you shall be free.”

She stared; after a moment she burst into a little laugh; then she shook her finger in his face and said, blushing, “Yes, free to be—­your wife.”

He caught the finger, bent his head over it and kissed it, ready to cry upon it.  It was the only kiss that he had given her; and what a world-wide event it was to both!  Ah, these lovers!  They find a universe where others see only trifles; they are gifted with the second-sight and live amid miracles.

“Do be careful, oh my dear friend!” was the last whisper of Clara as Thurstane quitted the tower.  Then she passed the day in ascending and descending between heights of happiness and abysses of anxiety.  Her existence henceforward was a Jacob’s ladder, which had its foot on a world of crime and sorrow, and its top in heavens passing description.

As for Thurstane, he had to think and act, for something must be done with Texas Smith.  He queried whether the fellow might not have seen Clara when she pushed him out of the crevice, and would not seize the first opportunity to kill her.  Angered by this supposition, he at first resolved to seize him, charge him with his crime, and turn him loose in the desert to take his chance among the Apaches.  Then it occurred to him that it might be possible to change this enemy into a partisan.  While he was pondering these matters his eye fell upon the man.  His army habit of authority and of butting straight at the face of danger immediately got the better of his wish to manage the matter delicately, and made him forget his promises to be prudent.  Beckoning Texas to follow him, he marched out of the plaza through the nearest gap, faced about upon his foe with an imperious stare, and said abruptly, “My man, do you want to be shot?”