“I reckon I’ve forgot what it was. It doesn’t matter, anyhow.” She was hurt, and deeply. It was all very well for her to try her little wiles to delay him, but in her heart she longed to hear the words he had been about to say. It had been very sweet to know that this brown, handsome son of Arizona loved her, very restful to know that for the first time in her life she could trustfully let her weakness lean on the strength of another. And, more than either, though she sometimes smilingly pretended to deny it to herself, was the ultimate fact that she loved him. His voice was music to her, his presence joy. He brought with him sunshine, and peace, and happiness. He was always so reliable, so little the victim of his moods. What could have come over him now to change him in that swift instant? Was she to blame? Had she unknowingly been at fault? Or was there something in her story that had chilled him? It was characteristic of her that it was herself she doubted and not him; that it never occurred to her that her hero had feet of clay like other men. She felt her heart begin to swell, and choked back a sob. It wrung him to hear the little breath catch, but he was a man, strong-willed and resolute. Though he dug his finger nails into his palms till the flesh was cut he would not give way to his desire. “You’re not angry at me—Bucky?” she asked softly. “No, I’m not angry at you.” His voice was cold because he dared not trust himself to let his tenderness creep into it. “I haven’t done anything that I ought not to? Perhaps you think it wasn’t—wasn’t nice to—to come here with you.” “I don’t think anything of the kind,” his hard voice answered. “I think you’re a prince, if you want to know.” She smiled a little wanly, trying to coax him back into friendliness. “Then if I’m a prince you must be a princess,” she teased. “I meant a prince of good fellows.” “Oh!” She could be stiff, too, if it came to that. And at this inopportune moment the key turned harshly and the door swung open. CHAPTER XII. A CLEAN WHITE MAN’S OPTION The light of a lantern coming down the steps blinded them for a moment. Behind the lantern peered the yellow face of the turnkey. “Ho, there, _Americano!_ They want you up above,” the man said. “The generals, and the colonels, and the captains want a little talk with you before they hang you, señor.” The two soldiers behind the fellow cackled merrily at his wit, and the encouraged turnkey tried again. “We shall trouble you but a little time. Only a few questions, señor, an order, and then _poco tiempo_, after a short walk to the gallows—paradise.” “What—what do you mean?” gasped the girl whitely. “Never mind, _muchacho_. This is no affair of yours. Your turn will come later. Have no fear of that,” nodded the wrinkled old parchment face. “But—but he hasn’t done anything wrong.”