awash.

"I think we might stop here," said Simon, "at all events till
daybreak."

"Yes," Dolores said, "at daybreak you go on again."

He was surprised by this reply:

"But you too, I suppose, Dolores?"

"Of course; but wouldn't it be better for us to separate? Soon
Rolleston's trail will leave the river and Forsetta is sure to catch
you up, unless I draw him off on another trail."

Simon did not quite understand the girl's plan:

"Then what will you do, Dolores?" he asked.

"I shall go my own way and I shall certainly draw them after me, since
it's I they want."

"But in that case you'll fall into the hands of Forsetta and Mazzani,
who means to avenge his brother's death. . . ."

"I shall give them the slip."

"And all the brutes swarming in these parts: will you give them the
slip too?"

"We're not discussing my affairs, but yours: you have to catch
Rolleston. I am hampering your efforts. So let us separate."

"Not at all!" protested Simon. "We have no right to separate; and you
may be sure that I shan't leave you."

Dolores' offer aroused Simon's curiosity. What was the girl's motive?
Why did she propose to sacrifice herself? In the silence and the
darkness, he thought of her for a long while and of their
extraordinary adventure. Starting in pursuit of the woman whom he
loved, here he was bound by events to another woman, who was herself
pursued; and of this other woman, whose safety depended on his and
whose fate was closely linked with his own, he knew nothing but the
grace of her figure and the beauty of her face. He had saved her life
and he scarcely knew her name. He was protecting her and defending
her; and her whole soul remained concealed from him.

He felt that she was creeping closer to him. Then he heard these
words, which she uttered in a low and hesitating voice:

"It's to save me from Forsetta, isn't it, that you refuse my offer?"

"Of course," he said. "He's terribly dangerous."

She replied, in a still lower voice and in the tone of one making a
confession:

"You must not let the threat of a Forsetta influence your conduct.
. . . What happens to me is of no great account. . . . Without knowing
much about my life, you can imagine the sort of girl I was: a little
cigarette-seller hanging about the streets of Mexico; later, a dancer
in the saloons at Los Angeles. . . ."

"Hush!" said Simon, placing his hand over her mouth. "There must be no
confidences between you and me."