r that
conquering men were merely the owners of women.

"It is good you come, senor," said Valencia. "Here is a wound and the
bullet under the skin. I have waited for Isidro to help but he is slow
on the way."

"He is busy otherwise, but I will call him unless my own help will
serve here. That is for the senora to say."

The eyes of the girl,--she was not more,--never left his face, and
above the lace scarf she peered at him as through a mask.

"It is you who sent messenger to save an unhappy one you did not know?
You are the Americano of the letter?"

"At your service, senora. May that service begin now?"

"It began when that letter was written, and this room made ready," she
said. "And if you can find the bullet it will end the unhappiness of
this good woman. She weeps for the little bit of lead. It should have
struck a heart instead of a shoulder."

"Ah, senora!" lamented Valencia, "weep like a woman over sorrows. It
is a better way than to mock."

"God knows it is not for me to mock!" breathed the soft voice
bitterly. "And if the senor will lend you his aid, I will again be in
his debt."

Without further words Kit approached, and Valencia drew the cover from
the shoulder and indicated where the ball could be felt.

"I cannot hold the shoulder and press the flesh there without making
much pain, too much," stated Valencia, "but it must come out, or there
will be trouble."

"Sure there will," asserted Kit, "and if you or Tula will hold the
arm, and Dona Jocasta will pardon me----"

He took the white shoulder in his two hands and gently traced the
direction of the bullet. It had struck in the back and slanted along
the shoulder blade. It was evidently fired from a distance and little
force left. Marto had been much nearer the pursuer, and his was a
clean cut wound through the upper arm.

The girl turned chalky white as he began slowly to press the bullet
backward along its trail, but she uttered no sound, only a deep intake
of breath that was half a sob, and the cold moisture of sickening pain
stood in beads on her face.

All of the little barriers with a stranger were forgotten, and the
shielding scarf fell away from her face and bosom, and even with the
shadowed emerald eyes closed, Kit Rhodes thought her the most perfect
thing in beauty he had ever seen.

He hated himself for the pain he was forcing on her as he steadily
followed the bullet upward and upward until it lay in his hand.

She did no