“No, senor.  Not yet.”

She added by way of explanation that word had been sent; that the priest was delayed; a man was dying and he must stay a little at the bedside.  She muttered the tale like a child repeating a lesson.  Galloway, watching Florence, who sat rigid in her chair by the table, waited for her to finish.

At the end he gave the woman a sharp, significant look.  She said something about a cup of coffee for the senorita and went hastily into the kitchen.  Florrie sprang to her feet, her hands clasped.

“You must let me go,” she cried wildly.  “The priest isn’t here.  I am going home.”

“No,” said Galloway steadily.  “You are not going home, Florence.  You must listen to me.  I love you more than anything else In the world, my dear.  I want you, want you all for mine.”

She saw a sudden light flare up in his eyes and it seemed to her that her heart would beat through the walls of her breast.  “I am not a boy, but a man.  A strong man, a man who, when he wants a thing, wants it with his whole heart and body and soul, a man who takes what he wants.  Wait; just listen to me!  You love me now; you will love me more and more when I give you all that I have promised you.  To-night, in an hour, I will have made the beginning; I will have gathered about me fifty men who will do exactly what I tell them to do!  Then they will go with us down into Mexico; they will be the beginning of a little army whose one thought will be loyalty . . . loyalty to you and to me.”

“No,” said Florence, her voice shaking.  “I am going. . . .”

“You will marry me when the priest comes,” he cut in sternly.  “Otherwise, if you make me, I will take you with me anyway, unmarried.  And I will make you marry me when we have crossed the border.  And now . . . now you will kiss me.  I have waited long, Florence.”

He came toward her; she slipped behind the table, crying out to him to stop.  But he came on, caught her, drew her into his arms.  And Florrie, some new passionate, terrified Florrie, beat at him with her fists, tore at him with her nails, hid her face from him, and with the agility born of her terror slipped away from him again, again put the table between them.  Galloway, a thin line of blood across his cheek, thrust the table aside.  As he did so the man came back into the room and stood watching, a twisted smile upon his lips.  Galloway lifted his thick shoulders in a shrug and stood staring at the girl cowering in her corner.

“Married or unmarried, you go with me,” he told her.  “Your kisses you may save for me.  Think it over.  You had better ask for the priest when I come back.”  He turned toward the Mexican.  “All ready, Feliz?”

The man nodded.

“Tell Castro, then.  It’s time to be in the saddle.”

With no other word to Florrie he went out.  But his last look was for her, the look of a victor.