o hold us here we'll both be dead inside
a few hours. I've no desire for that sort of thing. The issue is
clear cut, isn't it?"

Zoraida merely lifted her brows at him.

"If it becomes a question of your life or ours," he told her sternly;
"I'd naturally prefer it to be yours! Is that plain enough? For once,
young woman, it's up to you to play square. Now, go ahead."

They went out silently through the door which had given them entrance
into this ugly room, Zoraida leading the way, Kendric holding close at
her side and allowing her the sight of the obsidian knife held under
his coat with the point within an inch of her side, Betty close behind
him. Kendric felt a crying need of haste. For a few minutes he knew
that the fear of death had been heavy on the spirit of Zoraida,
paralyzing her will, freezing up the current of her thought. But she
was still Zoraida, essentially fearless; her characteristic fortitude
would not be long in reinstating itself in her heart; the mental
confusion was swiftly being replaced by the activity of resurging
hatred. He must be watchful of every corner and door, most of all
watchful of her.

Thus it was Kendric's hand, once bolts were shot back, that threw open
each door, as he held himself in readiness to spring forward or back.
But as appeared customary here the house seemed deserted. He thanked
his stars that the fellow he had struck down in Zoraida's room had
fallen hard. Not even the dull explosion of the pistol just now had
brought inquiry; no doubt the thick walls had deadened the sound.
After what seemed a long time they came into the wide dimly-lighted
hall. The door giving entrance to the _patio_ was open; under the
stars the little fountain played musically.

"Out this way," commanded Kendric. "Then around to the front of the
house. And if we meet anyone, Zoraida, you'd best think back a few
minutes before you start anything."

There was no one in the _patio_ and they went through swiftly and out
at the far side into the garden. Kendric filled his lungs with the
sweet air that was beginning to grow cool. The glitter of the stars
was to him like a hope and a promise. Never had he been so sick of
four walls and a smothering roof. Now the musty gardens of the golden
king seemed to him infinitely far away, a thousand times farther
removed than the dancing lights in the heavens.

With his hand gripping Zoraida's forearm they skirted the house.
Presently they