There was a shouting of commands without in Spanish, punctuated by oaths, the meaning of which the girl alone understood.  She leaned forward, her eyes on the door, the cocked revolver held ready.  She had meant what she said to Cavendish; to her mind death was far preferable to any surrender to that infuriated Mexican; she expected death, but one hope yet buoyed her up—­Westcott.  Odd that any memory of him should have come to her at that moment—­yet it did; as though he spoke, and bade her believe in his coming.  She had thought of him before, often in the past two days, but now he was real, tangible; she could almost feel the strong grip of his hand, and hear the sound of his voice.  It was exactly as though the man called to her, and she responded.  A dream, or what, it brought her courage, hope.

He would come; she had faith in that—­and he would find she had fought to the end, even if he came too late.  She buried her face in her hands, stifling a sob that shook her body, yet when she lifted the head again, there was no glimmer of tears in her eyes, and her cheeks were crimson.  She waited motionless, scarcely seeming to breathe—­the statue of a woman at bay.

All this was but for a moment, a moment of swift thought, of equally swift decision.  The next Cavendish stood beside her, grasping the shotgun, no longer a victim of weakness, his eyes meeting hers eagerly.

“I could only find twelve cartridges,” he exclaimed, “but I know how to use those.”

He took a step forward, and held out his hand.

“Forgive me, Miss Donovan,” he pleaded.  “Really I do not know what makes me like that, but you would make a man out of anybody.”

Her firm, slim fingers met his eagerly, her eyes instantly glowing in appreciation.

“Of course I forgive you,” she exclaimed.  “Your fear is no greater than my own.  I am a woman, and dread this sort of thing.  All that gives me courage is the knowledge that death is preferable to dishonour,” her voice lost its firmness, “and—­and my faith in a man.”

“You mean in possible rescue?”

Her eyes lifted to his face.

“Yes, Mr. Cavendish.  It may prove all imagination, yet there is one—­a real man, I am sure—­who must know of my plight before this.  If he does, and lives, he will come to me.  If we can only defend ourselves long enough there will be rescue.”

He hesitated, yet something told him this was no time to fear asking all.

“Surely you are not married?  Of course not; then he——­”

“Is merely a friend; no, there has been no other word spoken between us, yet,” her voice trembling slightly, “there are secrets a woman knows instinctively without speech.  I know this man cares—­enough to come.  Isn’t that strange, Mr. Cavendish, when we have only met three times?”

“No,” he said gallantly, “not to any one who has known you.  I believe you might even trust me.  Where is this man?”