He stared at her, a variety of emotions in his glance.  “Well,” he replied, presently, “I suppose I shall deserve that, if I succeed with my plan.  However, as a traitor, I’m not even a runner-up with your father.  He’s going to get a couple of million dollars as the price of his shame!  And he doesn’t even need the money.  On the other hand, I am a desperate, mighty unhappy ex-soldier experiencing all of the delights of a bankrupt, with the exception of an introduction to the referee in bankruptcy.  I’m whipped.  Who cares what becomes of me?  Not a soul on earth except Pablo and Carolina and they, poor creatures, are dependent upon me.  Why should I sacrifice my last chance for happiness in a vain effort to stem a yellow tide that cannot be stemmed?  Why do you taunt me with my aversion to sacrifice for my country—­I who have sacrificed two years of my life and some of my blood and much of my happiness?”

Suddenly she put her little gauntleted hand up to her face and commenced to weep.  “Oh, Don Mike, please forgive me!  I’m sorry.  I—­I—­have no right to demand such a sacrifice, but oh, I thought—­perhaps—­you were different from all the others—­that you’d be a true—­knight and die—­sword in—­hand—­oh, dear, I’m such a—­little ninny—­”

He bit his lower lip but could not quite conceal a smile.

“You mean you didn’t think I was a quitter!” His voice was grim and crisp.  “Well, in the dirty battle for bread and butter there are no decorations for gallantry in action; in that conflict I do not have to live up to the one that Congress gave me.  And why shouldn’t I quit?  I come from a long line of combination fighter-quitters.  We were never afraid of hardship or physical pain, danger or death, but—­we couldn’t face conditions; we balked and quit in the face of circumstance; we retired always before the economic onslaught of the Anglo-Saxon.”

“Ah, but you’re Anglo-Saxon,” she sobbed.  “You belong to the race that doesn’t quit—­that somehow muddles through.”

“If I but possessed blue eyes and flaxen hair—­if I but possessed the guerdon of a noble lady’s love—­I might not have disappointed you, Kay.  I might still have been a true knight and died sword in hand.  Unfortunately, however, I possess sufficient Latin blood to make me a little bit lazy—­to counsel quitting while the quitting is good.”

“I’m terribly disappointed,” she protested.  “Terribly.”

“So am I. I’m ashamed of myself, but—­a contrite heart is not hockable at the only pawnshop in El Toro.  Buck up, Miss Parker!”

“You have called me Kay three times this afternoon, Miguel—­”

He rode close to her, reached over and gently drew one little hand from her crimson face.  “You’re a dear girl, Kay,” he murmured, huskily.  “Please cease weeping.  You haven’t insulted me or even remotely hurt my little feelings.  God bless your sweet soul!  If you’ll only stop crying, I’ll give you Panchito.  He’s yours from this minute.  Saddle and bridle, too.  Take him.  Do what you please with him, but for heaven’s sake don’t let your good mother think we’ve been quarreling—­and on the very second day of our acquaintance.”