e all sighs and vows?" she cried impatiently. "Will it not
sacrifice pride and vanity for the object of its devotion?"

"Everything but honor," answered the man steadfastly.

She made a gesture of despair.

"What is this honor you talk so much about? It is neither Christian nor
lawful nor right."

"It is a part of me, Valencia."

"Then your ideas are archaic. The duel was for a time when every man had
to seek his personal redress. There is law in this twentieth century."

"Not as between man and man in the case of a personal indignity--at
least, not for Manuel Pesquiera."

"But it is so needless. We know you are brave; he knows it, too. Surely
your vanity----"

He smiled a little sadly.

"I think it is not vanity, but something deeper. None of my ancestors
could have tolerated this stigma, nor can their son. My will has nothing
to do with it, and my desire still less. It is kismet."

"Then you must know the truth--that if you kill this man I can
never----"

"Never what?"

"Never marry you."

"Why?"

"His blood would stand between us."

"Do you mean that you--love him?"

Her dark eyes met his steadily.

"I don't think I mean that, Manuel. How could I mean that, since I love
you and am betrothed to you? Sometimes I hate him. He is so insolent in
his daring. Then, too, he is my enemy, and he has come here to set this
happy valley to hate and evil. Yet, if I should hurt him, it would stand
between us forever."

"I am sorry."

"Only sorry, Manuel?"

He clamped his teeth on the torrent of protest that rose within him when
she handed him back his ring. It would do no good to speak more. The
immutable fact stood between them.

"I did not know life could be so hard--and cruel," she cried out in a
burst of passion.

She went to the open window and looked out upon the placid, peaceful
valley. She had a swift, supple way of moving, as if her muscles
responded with effortless ease to her volition; but the young man
noticed that to-night there was a drag to her motions.

His heart yearned toward her. He longed mightily to take her in his arms
and tell her that he would do as she wished. But, as he had said,
something in him more potent than vanity, than pride, than his will,
held him to the course he had set for himself. His views of honor might
be archaic and ridiculous, but he lived by his code as tenaciously as
had his fathers. Gordon had insulted and humiliated him publicly. He
must apologize or g