His brother said nothing, only looked at him in wonder, as he rose with hands thrust in pockets and walked the length of the little terrace formed by the refuse of the mine. The two brothers had changed places. It was now Keith, the cool, the indifferent, who had crossed some line of emotional experience where speech was a relief--Keith, of all men! Teddy wondered who the woman could be; she would be worth seeing. "So you see, Ted," observed the other, with a forced laugh, "you need not explain things to me. When the woman comes, none of us cares much what the other fellow thinks." "If she is the right woman, I'm mighty sorry, old man, that it's going to be as you say--that you are not going to see her again." "Don't waste good sorrow! I'm the only fool in the case--she doesn't care." "That's not so easy to believe," declared Teddy, loyally. "You probably only asked her once, and then hit the trail before she could change her mind." "Ask her. When people care, words are not so necessary." "Perhaps not, but girls do expect words; though the right girl--" "She doesn't know that she was the right girl; I may not have made it clear. I was a fool who dreamed dreams and believed them true. Talking about it doesn't help. I thought it might; that's all." He continued to walk the terrace, as though with a certain impatience at having let go of himself. Teddy regarded him for a few moments of awkward silence. Keith had never been demonstrative, and this sudden confidence caught Teddy unprepared. He felt ill at ease, realizing that it was no light sentiment, causing him to let go of himself and speak. "I reckon this particular mountain must be bewitched," he said at last. "The only other time you talked of a girl--any special girl--was after we were led across yon range by that girl of the convent. Even then you talked of her only when the knock on your head sent you luny. What was the name they called her? Spirit--Dona Spirit--Dona Espiritu! That is it! I really thought for a few days of your ravings that we were going to have a nun in the family; and now it's a new girl!" Keith regarded him for a moment, then in silence took out tobacco and made a cigarette. Of what use were words? "I always wondered who that girl was and what became of her," continued Teddy. "The old padre was as dumb as an oyster on the subject. Did you learn more than her name?" "Not much," said Keith, briefly. "I always meant to. Funny how those crack-brained Indians let up on the attack that night, when she slipped that ring on your finger and held up your hand for them to see. It was the last thing I noted before I keeled over. Those Indians have not forgotten that. They knew when I came back here, and they seemed to watch either the mine or me,--I don't know which it is. Once they asked an old Mexican for you; he speaks their lingo. They described you as 'the man of the ring.'" "That's queer." "Did the girl tell you what the ring meant?"