“Stop!” The girl leaped from her chair, blazing wrath in every line of her face. “I shall not listen--” “The grandson of El Rojo and his grandson,” Urgo purred on with his smile of a hunting cat, “every second generation of the O’Donoju has one born with the curse of the red hair to tell all Sonora God does not forget. And now you, the last of an accursed family, its great estates gone--its power gone--your own grandfather with his red hair shot with Maximilian!--You with the red head--daughter of a murderer--” A hand closed over the collar of the colonel’s military jacket, gave it a twist, throttling his speech. Grant had leaped from his seat--a pain like a bayonet point shot through his shoulder at the sudden movement--and come upon the spiteful little slanderer from behind. “Gringo assassin!” whistled the little Spaniard, and his right hand groped backward to a concealed holster. It fell into a grip too strong to be broken. Grant was bearing all his weight on the other’s back, for the instant he was on his feet he discovered a weakness of his knees which would not support him. The impulse to shut off Urgo’s venomous tongue had been acted upon without calculation; now that he had committed himself to action the American realized how heavy was the hazard against him. One arm useless, all the other muscles once ready to respond instantly to call for action now seeming to be palsied. A paralytic boldly attempting to bell a wildcat; this was the situation. Benicia saw the American’s face over the squirming Urgo’s shoulder; it wore a strained grin which hardly served to mask the toll taken of weakened muscles. She whirled and ran out of the patio to call aid in the servants’ quarters. Now the hot fire from his wound was spreading across Grant’s back and down his fighting arm as he swayed across the patio half supported on the Spaniard’s back. The frantic jerkings of Urgo’s pistol arm in Grant’s grip threatened momentarily to loosen the restraining fingers; that done, the American’s end would be speedy. Grant found himself near a wall, braced one foot against it and lunged outward. Down went both men. Urgo twisted out from under the heavier body, pinning him, and raised himself to one knee. Grant saw a tigerish gleam of triumph in the other’s eyes as his right hand whipped back to the holster on his hip. Some power more rapid than thought moved the American’s sound arm outward in a wild sweep which encompassed a giant fuchsia bush growing in a Chinese tea tub. Over went the bush just as Urgo fired from the hip, its branches swishing down over the latter’s head. The bullet went wild. Grant, near swooning from the consuming pain of his wound, scrambled for his enemy--went up with him when he found his feet. The revolver had been knocked from Urgo’s hand by the avalanche of greenery; a sideways kick of Grant’s foot sent it spinning into the fountain.