There was a bare instant of seeming hesitation, then the quiet, better controlled voice answered soberly: 

“Yes, in the East, three years ago.”

Like a flash of powder, the girl of the hot-blooded South burst into fresh flame of passion, her foot stamping the floor, her black eyes glowing with unrestrained anger.

“Dios de Dios!  Eet ees as I thought.  He lofe you, not Mercedes.  Vy I not kill you?—­hey?”

Miss Norvell met her fiercely threatening look, her single step of advance, without tremor or lowering of the eyes.  She even released her grasp upon the uplifted knife, as if in utter contempt.  For a moment they confronted each other, and then, as suddenly as she had broken into flame, the excitable young Mexican burst into tears.  As though this unexpected exhibition of feeling had inspired the action, the other as quickly decided upon her course.

“Listen to me, girl,” she exclaimed gravely, again grasping the lowered knife hand.  “I am going to trust you implicitly.  You feel deeply; you will understand when I tell you all.  You call me a fine lady because I hold myself aloof from the senseless revelry of this mining camp; and you believe you hate me because you suppose I feel above you.  But you are a woman, and, whatever your past life may have been, your heart will respond to the story of a woman’s trouble.  I ’m going to tell you mine, not so much for my sake as for your own.  I am not afraid of your knife; why, its sharp point would be almost welcome, were it not that I have serious work to do in the world before I die.  And you are going to aid me in accomplishing it.  You say you do not really know now whether you truly love or hate this man, this Farnham.  But I know for myself beyond all doubt.  All that once might have blossomed into love in my heart has been withered into hatred, for I know him to be a moral leper, a traitor to honor, a remorseless wretch, unworthy the tender remembrance, of any woman.  You suppose I went to him this night through any deliberate choice of my own?  Almighty God, no!  I went because I was compelled; because there was no possible escape.  Now, I am going to tell you why.”

Mercedes, the tears yet clinging to her long, black lashes, stood motionless, gazing at the other with fascination, her slender, scarlet-draped figure quivering to the force of these impetuous words.  She longed, yet dreaded, to hear, her own lips refusing utterance.  But Beth Norvell gave little opportunity; her determination made, she swept forward unhesitatingly.  As though fearful of being overheard, even in the midst of that loneliness, she leaned forward, whispering one quick, breathless sentence of confession.  The startled dancer swayed backward at the words, clutching at her breast, the faint glimmer of light revealing her staring eyes and pallid cheeks.

“Mother of God!” she sobbed convulsively.  “No, no! not dat!  He could not lie to me like dat!”