Alaire trusted herself to ask, “Then we are free to go?”

The general’s face was swept by a grimace intended for a smile.  “I have ordered your horses to be saddled.”

Dave, who had with difficulty restrained his anger at the fellow’s bombast, was upon the point of speaking when Father O’Malley took the words out of his mouth: 

“Would you send this woman out of her own house into a country like—­like this?  Remember the fortune in cattle you have already taken—­”

Longorio broke in with a snarl:  “Is it my fault that the country is in arms?  Military necessity compels me to remain here.  I consider myself magnanimous.  I—­” His voice cracked, and he made a despairing, violent gesture.  “Go, before I change my mind.”

Dave signaled to the others, and Alaire slipped away to make herself ready.  During the uncomfortable silence which succeeded her departure, Longorio paced the room, keeping his eyes resolutely turned away from Law.

“Do you mean that I, too, may go?” O’Malley inquired.

“What good are you to me?” snapped the general.

“You will give us safe conduct?”

“Be still, priest!” Longorio glared at the speaker, clasping and unclasping his fists behind his back.

With the sound of hoofs outside, Alaire and Dolores appeared, and the Mexican straightened himself with an effort.

“Adios, senora!” he said, with a stiff bow.  “We have had a pleasant friendship and a thrilling flirtation, eh?  I shall never cease to regret that Fate interrupted at such an interesting moment.  Adios!  Adios!” He bowed formally, in turn to Dave and to the priest, then resumed his pacing, with his hands at his back and his brow furrowed as if in a struggle with affairs of greater moment than this.

But when he heard the outside door creak shut behind them his indifference vanished and he halted with head turned in an effort to catch the last sounds of their departure.  His face was like tallow now, his lips were drawn back from his teeth as if in supreme agony.  A moment and the hoofbeats had died away.  Then Longorio slipped his leash.

He uttered a cry—­a hoarse, half-strangled shriek that tore his throat.  He plucked the collar from his neck as if it choked him; he beat his breast.  Seizing whatever article his eye fell upon, he tore and crushed it; he swept the table clean of its queer Spanish bric-a-brac, and trampled the litter under his heels.  Spying a painting of a saint upon the wall, he ran to it, ripped it from its nail, and, raising it over his head, smashed frame and glass, cursing all saints, all priests, and churchly people.  Havoc followed him as he raged about the place wreaking his fury upon inanimate objects.  When he had well-nigh wrecked the contents of the room, and when his first paroxysm had spent its violence, he hurled himself into a chair, writhing in agony.  He bit his wrists, he pounded his fists, he kicked; finally he sprawled full length upon the floor, clawing at the cool, smooth tiles until his nails bled.