ught her breast. "Benito! He is not--" Words failed
her.

"No, not dead--yet," McTurpin answered.

"God in Heaven! Tell me," said the girl, imploringly! "He is wounded?
Dying?" McTurpin took a seat beside her on the rustic bench. "Benito
isn't dead--nor wounded so far as I know. But," his tone held an ominous
meaning, "it might be better if he were."

"I--I do not understand," said Inez, staring.

"Then let me make it clear." McTurpin struck a fist against his palm.
"Your brother is American. Very well. And what is an American who takes
up arms against his country?"

The girl sprang up. "It is a lie. Benito fights for freedom, justice
only--"

"That is not the view of our American Commander," McTurpin rose and
faced her. "The law of war is that a man who fights against his country
is a traitor." His eyes held hers hypnotically. "When this revolt is
over there will be imprisonment or pardon for the Spanish-Californians.
_But Benito will be hanged_."

Inez Windham swayed. One hand grasped at the bench-back for support; the
other clutched her bodice near the throat. "Benito," she said almost in
a whisper. Then she turned upon McTurpin furiously. "Go," she cried. "I
do not believe you. Go!"

But McTurpin did not stir. "It is the law of nations," he declared, "no
use denying it, Miss Windham."

"Why did you come to tell me this? To torture me?"

"To save you--and your brother?"

"How?" she asked fiercely.

"I have influence with Alcalde Bartlett." The gambler smiled. "He owes
me--more than he can pay. But if that fails ..." he turned toward her
eagerly, "I have means to accomplish his escape."

"And the price," she stammered. "There is a price, isn't there?"

His gaze met hers directly, "You, little Inez."

CHAPTER IX

THE ELOPEMENT

Two riders, a man and a veiled woman evidently young, halted their
horses in Portsmouth Square, where the former alighted and offered an
arm to his companion. She, however, disdaining his assistance, sprang
lightly from the saddle and, turning her back on him, gazed, motionless,
toward the bay. There was something arresting and curiously dramatic
about the whole performance, something that hinted of impending tragedy.
The slight figure with its listless droop and stony immobility caught
and clutched the sympathies of Nathan Spear as he was passing by. The
man was Alec McTurpin; the girl, no doubt, some light o' love from a
neighboring pueblo. Yet there was a disturbing