It is true that Luis Longorio was utterly alien, and in that sense almost repellent to Alaire; moreover, she suspected him of being a monster so depraved that no decent woman could bring herself to accept his attentions.  Nevertheless, in justice to the fellow, she had to acknowledge that externally, at least, he was immensely superior to the Mexicans she had met.  Then, too, his aristocracy was unmistakable, and Alaire prided herself that she could recognize good blood in men as quickly as in horses.  The fellow had been favored by birth, by breeding, and by education; and although military service in Mexico was little more than a form of banditry, nevertheless Longorio had developed a certain genius for leadership, nor was there any doubt as to his spectacular courage.  In some ways he was a second Cid—­another figure out of Castilian romance.

While he and Alaire were talking the passengers had returned to their seats; they were shouting good-byes to the soldiers opposite; the engine-bell was clanging loudly; and now the conductor approached to warn Longorio that the train was about to leave.  But the railway official had learned a wholesome respect for uniforms, and therefore he hung back until, urged by necessity, he pushed forward and informed the general of his train orders.

Longorio favored him with a slow stare.  “You may go when I leave,” said he.

“Si, senor.  But—­”

The general uttered a sharp exclamation of anger, at which the conductor backed away, expressing by voice and gesture his most hearty approval of the change of plan.

“We mustn’t hold the train,” Alaire said, quickly.  “I will arrange to see you in Nuevo Pueblo when I return.”

Longorio smiled brilliantly and lifted a brown hand.  “No, no!  I am a selfish man; I refuse to deprive myself of this pleasure.  The end must come all too soon, and as for these peladors, an hour more or less will make no difference.  Now about these cattle.  Mexico does not make war upon women, and I am desolated that the actions of my men have caused annoyance to the most charming lady in the world.”

“Ah!  You are polite.”  Knowing that in this man’s help alone lay her chance of adjusting her loss, Alaire deliberately smiled upon him.  “Can I count upon your help in obtaining my rights?” she asked.

“Assuredly.”

“But how?  Where?”

Longorio thought for a moment, and his tone altered as he said:  “Senora, there seems to be an unhappy complication in our way, and this we must remove.  First, may I ask, are you a friend to our cause?”

“I am an American, and therefore I am neutral.”

“Ah!  But Americans are not neutral.  There is the whole difficulty.  This miserable revolt was fostered by your government; American money supports it; and your men bear arms against us.  Your tyrant President is our enemy; his hands itch for Mexico—­”

“I can’t argue politics with you,” Alaire interrupted, positively.  “I believe most Americans agree that you have cause for complaint, but what has that to do with my ranch and my cattle?  This is something that concerns no one except you and me.”