“How do I know,” Dolores sobbed.  “He is a—­a thick, black fellow with a scar on his lip, like a snarl.”

“Felipe!”

“Yes, Felipe!  I believe they called him that.”

Longorio strode to the end of the livingroom, flung open the wooden shutters of a window and, leaning far out, whistled sharply on his fingers.

“Oiga!  Teniente!  Ho, you fellows!” he shouted.

From the darkness a voice answered; a man, evidently on guard, came running.

“Call old Pancho,” the general directed.  “Tell him to bring me black Felipe, the fellow with the torn lip.  Quick!”

“Yes, general,” came the voice; then the metallic rattle of spurs and accoutrements as the sentry trotted away.

Dolores had completely broken down now, and Alaire was trying to comfort her.  Their guest remained by the window, frowning.  After a time there sounded a murmur of voices, then a shuffling of feet in the hall; Alaire’s friend, the old lieutenant, appeared in the doorway, saluting.  Behind him were several others.

“Here is Felipe,” he announced.

“Bring him in.”

A sullen, frowning man in soiled uniform was pushed forward, and Dolores hid her face against her mistress’s shoulder.

“Is this the fellow?” Longorio inquired.

Dolores nodded.

“Well, what have you to say for yourself?” The general transfixed his trooper with a stare; then, as the latter seemed bereft of his voice, “Why did you enter this house?”

Felipe moistened his scarred lips.  “That woman is—­nice and clean.  She’s not so old, either, when you come to look at her.”  He grinned at his comrades, who had crowded in behind old Pancho.

“So!  Let us go outside and learn more about this.”  Longorio waved his men before him and followed them out of the room and down the hall and into the night.

When a moment or two had dragged past, Dolores quavered.  “What are they going to do with him?”

“I don’t know.  Anyhow, you need not fear—­”

There sounded the report of a gunshot, deadened indeed by the thick adobe walls of the house, yet sudden and loud enough to startle the women.

When Longorio reappeared he found Alaire standing stiff and white against the wall, with Dolores kneeling, her face still buried in her mistress’s gown.

“Give yourself no concern,” he told them, quickly.  “I beg a thousand pardons for Felipe.  Henceforth no one will molest you.”

“Was that a—­shot?” Alaire inquired faintly.

“Yes.  It is all settled.”

“You killed him?”

The general nodded.  “Purely for the sake of discipline—­one has to be firm.  Now your woman is badly frightened.  Send her away so that we may reach an understanding.”

“Oh-h!  This is frightful,” Alaire gasped.  “I can’t talk to you.  Go—­Let me go.”

The man pondered for an instant.  “Perhaps that would be better,” he agreed, reluctantly, “for I see you, too, are unstrung.  Very well!  My affairs will have to wait.  Take a few hours to think over what I have told you.  When you have slept you will feel differently about me.  You will meet me with a smile, eh?” He beamed hopefully.