Scarcely comprehending this peculiar explanation, Beth Norvell’s first conception was that the girl had chosen wrong, that she had allied herself upon the side of evil.

“You mean you—­you will go back to Biff Farnham?” she asked, her tone full of horror.

Mercedes straightened up quickly, her young, expressive face filled with a new passion, which struggled almost vainly for utterance through her lips.

“Go back to dat man!” she panted.  “Me? Sapristi! and you tink I do dat after Senor Brown ask me be hees vife!  Blessed Mary! vat you tink I am?  You tink I not feel, not care?  I go back to dat Farnham?  Eet vould not be, no! no!  I tol’ him dat mooch, an’ he got mad.  I no care, I like dat.  I no lofe him, nevah; I vas sold to him for money, like sheep, but I learn to hate him to kill.”  The deep glow of the black eyes softened, and her head slowly dropped until it touched the other’s extended arm.  “But dis Senor Brown he vas not dat kind—­he ask me to marry him; he say he not care vat I been, only he lofe me, an’ he be good to me alvays.  I vas hungry for dat, senorita, but I say no, no, no!  Eet vas not for me, nevah.  I send him avay so sorry, an’ den I cry ven I hear his horse go out yonder.  Eet vas like he tread on me, eet hurt dat vay.  Maybe I no lofe him, but I know he vas good man an’ he lofe me.  Eet vas de honor ven he ask me dat, an’ now I be good voman because a good man lofes me.  Holy Mother! eet vill be easy now dat he vanted to marry me.”

Impulsively Beth Norvell, her own eyes moist, held the other, sobbing like a child within the clasp of sympathetic arms.  There was instantly formed between them a new bond, a new feeling of awakened womanhood.  Yet, even as her fingers continued to stroke the dishevelled hair softly, there flashed across her mind a recurring memory of her purpose, the necessity for immediate action.  Not for an instant longer did she doubt the complete honesty of the other’s frank avowal, or question the propriety of requesting her aid in thwarting Farnham.  She held the slight, quivering figure back, so that she might gaze into the uplifted, questioning face.

“Mercedes, yes, yes, I understand it all,” she cried eagerly.  “But we cannot talk about it any longer now.  It is a wonderful thing, this love of a good man; but we are wasting time that may mean life or death to others, perhaps even to him.  Listen to what I say—­Farnham has already gone to the ‘Little Yankee,’ and taken a gang of roughs with him.  They left San Juan on horseback more than half an hour ago.  He threatened me first, and boasted that Mr. Winston was out there, and that I was too late to warn him of danger.  Oh, girl, you understand what that means; you know him well, you must realize what he is capable of doing.  I came here as fast as I could in the dark,” she shuddered, glancing backward across her shoulder.  “Every step was a way of horrors, but I did n’t know any one who could help me.  But you—­you know the way to the ‘Little Yankee,’ and we—­we must get there before daylight, if we have to crawl.”