And, in their midst, sitting his horse with shoulders squared, his face devoid of all expression, was the man Señor Fernandez had said his daughter was to marry. “They have brought him here to kill him!” the girl moaned. “And, the others----?” “Dead, else ridden for help,” replied the _señora_. “If we had but a poniard----” The horse had stopped beside the fountain. A chief grasped the animal’s mane and was shouting to the maniacs who shrieked around him. They stopped their dancing and their cries died down. Half a dozen men raised hands to take the rider from his horse and carry him toward the door, half a dozen more led the animal from the patio, scores ran toward the adobe buildings, and others gathered in groups in the enclosure to hold animated conversation, now and then screeching their enthusiasm and shaking muskets and bows above their heads. Señora Vallejo drew the girl back from the curtained window, and they stood at the foot of the bed, still clasped in each other’s arms, looking toward the door. They heard steps in the corridor outside--the steps of but one man, it seemed--and they feared a skulking gentile reconnoitering, one who soon would send a shriek ringing through the house to inform the others he had found women there. Silence for an instant, then they heard the bolt withdrawn. Another instant, and the door was thrown open. “Rojerio Rocha!” Señora Vallejo exclaimed. He closed the door behind him, bowed before them, and advanced a step into the room. “You have come to say that there is no hope?” the woman asked. “I have come to say, first of all, _señora_, and you, _señorita_, that there is absolutely no danger for either of you, if you are obedient.” “No danger? What mean you, Rojerio Rocha? No danger with that mob of howling savages in war paint, crowding the patio and overrunning the house?” “They are not overrunning the house, _señora_, pardon me. None are in the house except chiefs and a few servants. Already they have the fires going, and a roast of beef is being prepared. You shall have food soon.” “Are you an imbecile in truth?” the _señora_ cried. “You trust such wretches? Do you not know that, if they do not slay us at once, they are but playing with us as a cat plays with a mouse before she kills it? Where are your brains, Rojerio Rocha? Is there to be no attempt at rescue? Give us at least a poniard, that we may protect ourselves or take our own lives to save honour! Where is Señor Lopez? Where are the troopers? Have they ridden for help?” She stopped speaking, standing before him with her hands clutching at her breasts--fear-stricken, desperate, but angry above all. “Señor Lopez and the four troopers,” he replied, “rode down into the cañon to make an investigation, disregarding my orders to the contrary. They are dead.” “Dead?” Anita cried. “Dead, _señorita_.” “But you----? Why have they let you live, Rojerio Rocha? They will torture?”