“Well, I won’t promise you his head, but I’ve thrashed the life out of him, if that will give you any satisfaction.  I caught him in the woods, and I laid on my riding-whip until he bit the grass and yelled for mercy.”

The eyes in the cave blazed with a light which reminded him uncomfortably of Dona Erigida.

“That was well!  That was well!” said Pilar.  “But it is not enough.  I must have his head.  I never shall sleep again till then, senor.  Ay, Dios, what I have suffered!”

“Well, we’ll see about the head later.  To get you out of this is the first thing on the program.  Benito!”

Benito ran forward, and together they managed to drag the stone aside.  But Pilar retreated into the darkness and covered her face with her hands.

“Ay, Dios!  Dios!  I cannot go out into the sunlight.  I am old and hideous.”

“Make some coffee,” said Sturges to Benito.  He went within and took her hands.  “Come,” he said.  “You have been here a week only.  Your brain is a little turned, and no wonder.  You’ve put a lifetime of suffering into that week.  But I’m going to take care of you hereafter, and that she-devil will have no more to say about it.  I’ll either take you to your father, or to my mother in Boston—­whichever you like.”

Benito brought in the coffee and some fresh bread and dried meat.  Pilar ate and drank ravenously.  She had found only stale bread and water in the cave.  When she had finished, she looked at Sturges with a more intelligent light in her eyes, then thrust her straggling locks behind her ears.  She also resumed something of her old dignified composure.

“You are very kind, senor,” she said graciously.  “It is true that I should have been mad in a few more days.  At first I did nothing but run, run, run—­the cave is miles in the mountain; but since when I cannot remember I have huddled against that stone, listening—­listening; and at last you came.”

Sturges thought her more beautiful than ever.  The light was streaming upon her now, and although she was white and haggard she looked far less cold and unapproachable than when he had endeavoured in vain to win a glance from her in the church.  He put his hand on her tangled hair.  “You shall suffer no more,” he repeated; “and this will grow again.  And that beautiful mane—­it is mine.  I begged it from the Alcalde, and it is safe in my trunk.”

“Ah, you love me!” she said softly.

“Yes, I love you!” And then, as her eyes grew softer and she caught his hand in hers with an exclamation of passionate gratitude for his gallant rescue, he took her in his arms without more ado and kissed her.

“Yes, I could love you,” she said in a moment.  “For, though you are not handsome, like the men of my race, you are true and good and brave:  all I dreamed that a man should be until that creature made all men seem loathsome.  But I will not marry you till you bring me his head—­”