“No?  You ’ave been married all your life wiz one man?”

“Yes,” she told him.

“My! what a rotten life you ’ave led!” the bandit commiserated her.  “But ees not too late.  I shall steel save you.  But you shall not sank me.  Shall not be so damn bad for me, too!”

Definite terror seized Lucia now.  She knew by his tone, by his every gesture, that he was not fooling.  She had heard, had read, of men like this Lopez.  They were thick along the border.  He meant business.  Morgan had not exaggerated the danger of coming down here.

“But you wouldn’t do that,” she cried out.

“Why not?” Lopez said.

“It’s—­it’s wrong!”

The bandit smiled his winning smile.  “Whose beeziness what we do if we like for do him?”

“Please don’t take me with you!” Lucia appealed.  Why had Morgan Pell ever brought her to this border line?  She might have known better than to come.  It was no place for a young and attractive woman.

“You don’t wish to go?” Lopez questioned, hardly believing that any pretty woman could resist his charms.

“No,” cried Lucia.

“You mean you wish to stay married wiz one man?”

“Ye-es,” Lucia faltered.

“Never no life?  Never no fun?  Ha!  If you was old, fat—­zen, perhaps.  But young, beautiful!  For why was you born if you no wish to leeve?”

“But I do wish to live!” Lucia cried in desperation; and her hands went out in an attitude of supplication.

Lopez appraised her once more.  “But when I come along an’ show you ’ow you raise ’ell and say no.  Ees great honor to be took by Pancho Lopez into Mexico.  Like ’ow you say, ze decoration for ze chest,” and he indicated the spot on his coat where a war medal might be placed.

Just then, to Lucia’s relief, the cook came in, bearing a tray laden with chile con carne, bread and butter, and sugar, and placed it on the table.  His fright was still evident.  His hands trembled, his legs shook.

“Ah!  Ze food!” Pancho cried.  “Good!  Put zem zere!” he ordered; and the cook placed the tray closer to him.  Then he turned to Lucia Pell.  “You shall wait on me,” he told her, as though he were conferring the greatest honor upon her.

Angela came close to him, eager again to please him.  He merely pushed her to one side, and had eyes only for Lucia.  “You!” he said, looking her straight in the face.  He sat down, and scanned the tray, while the cook stood in terror, not daring to leave the room, but wishing to God this moment were over.  Had he forgotten anything?

“I do not see ze coffee,” Pancho said at last.

“I get for you!” the cook screamed in a shrill voice, and rushed for the kitchen.

“Pronto,” Lopez said.  Then, to Lucia, “Ze bread.”  She leaned over to get a piece for him.  He watched her carefully.  “Your hand is shake.  For why?  You ’fraid from me, perhaps?”