“Yes.  I know myself as no one knows me.”

“Why do you think I care for you?”

Longorio’s eyes opened.  His expression plainly showed that he could not imagine any woman in her senses failing to adore him.

“Don’t you take much for granted?” Alaire insisted.

The Mexican shook his head.  Then his face lightened.  “Ah!  Now I see.  Your modesty forbids you to acknowledge your love—­is that it?  Well, I know that you admire me, for I can see it.  All women admire me, and they all end by loving me.”  His chest arched imperceptibly; with a slender finger he delicately smoothed his black eyebrows.  Alaire felt a wild impulse to laugh, but was glad she had subdued it when he continued:  “I am impetuous, but impetuosity has made me what I am.  I act, and then mold fate to suit my own ends.  Opportunity has delivered to me my heart’s desire, and I will not be cheated out of it.  Among the men I brought with me to La Feria is a priest.  He is dirty, for I caught him as he was fleeing toward the border; but he is a priest, and he will marry us tonight.”

Alaire managed to gasp, “Surely you are not in earnest.”

“Indeed I am!  That is why I insisted that you dine with me this evening.  I cannot waste more time here, for necessity calls me away.  You shall go as my wife.”

“Do you think I would remarry on the very day I find myself a widow?”

“The world will never know.”

“You dare to say that!” Her tone was one of disgust, of finality.  “I wonder how I have listened to so much.  It is horrible.”

“You are still a little hysterical, and you exaggerate.  If I had more time I could afford to wait.”  He ogled her with his luminous gaze.  “I would let you play with me to your heart’s content and exercise your power until you tired and were ready to surrender.”

Alaire raised her head proudly, her nostrils dilated, her eyes ablaze with hostility.  “This is very humiliating, but you force me to tell you that I hate you.”

Longorio was incredulous rather than offended.  He drew himself up to his full height and smiled, saying, “That is impossible.”  Then, ignoring her impatience:  “Come!  You cannot deceive me.  The priest is waiting.”

When Alaire spoke next it was with an expression and with a tone of such loathing that his yellow face paled “Your conceit is insufferable,” she breathed.

After a brief struggle with himself, the Mexican cried, hoarsely:  “I will not be refused.  You wish me to tame you, eh?  Good!  You have found your master.  Make your choice, then.  Which shall it be, surrender or—­compulsion?”

“So!  You have been lying, as I thought.  Compulsion!  Now the real Longorio speaks.”

He flung up his hands as if to ward off her fury.  “No?  Have I not made myself clear?  I shall embrace you only with the arms of a husband, for this is not the passion of a moment, but of a lifetime, and I have myself to consider.  The wife of Mexico’s next President must be above reproach; there must be no scandal, no secrets hidden away for enemies to unearth.  She must stand before the people as a perfect woman; she must lend prestige to his name.  When I speak of compulsion, then, I mean the right of a husband—­”