concern they
felt. They watched the bandit as he pawed through some papers on the table.
With maddening indifference he then lighted another cigarette, and went
over to the door, looking out at the male prisoners. Finally he turned upon
them, looked them over, and remarked:

"What a pity. Only two women!"

They shuddered away from his gaze.

There was a noise from the direction of the kitchen, and Alvarada, with the
miserable little Mexican cook ahead of him, rushed in.

He was addressing him in Spanish: "_Usted si cusinero. Borachi!_"

Lopez gave one glance at the poor specimen who had charge of the kitchen.

"The cook," he laughed. "He is dronk!" He now addressed him directly: "You
are dronk," he affirmed, and stamped his foot.

Frightened, the boy cried: "No! No!" Certainly he was under the influence
of the deadly tequila; but when he saw the bandit's face, and realized that
he was in his power, he became suddenly and miraculously sober. He was
firmly convinced that his last moment on this earth had come. He knew that
a man like Lopez never hesitated to shoot to kill. He realized in the
twinkling of an eye how late it was, how the dinner had been delayed
through his drunkenness; and this visitor would brook no further waiting.
He fully expected to be shot against the door. Therefore, to save time, he
slunk to the entrance of the kitchen, placed himself against the jamb,
crossed himself, muttered a rapid, incoherent prayer in Spanish, put his
hands behind his back, closed his eyes and waited for the fatal shot that
would send him straight to hell.

But nothing happened. Lopez looked at the cook, and said casually to Pedro:

"Not till after dinner," and puffed his cigarette.

"_Despues de la comida_," said Pedro.

"I will make for you!" cried the wretched cook, opening his eyes, and so
relieved to be still alive that he could scarcely articulate.

"_Pronto_," ordered Lopez.

"_Si, Madre di Dios!_" cried the cook; and fled to his kitchen, tumbling
over himself in his eagerness to get a meal for the bandit.

There was a pause. What would Lopez do next? Kill them all? In Spanish he
began, turning to Lucia:

"_Santa Maria_--You come here."

Angela stepped forward.

"You mean me?" she asked, sweetly.

"No!" came the gruff voice of Lopez. "You!" pointing to the frightened
Lucia.

"Why do you want me?" she asked, moving slightly toward him.

"I would look at you," the bandit replied. He was appraising