"I confess your amazement surprises me," said Culvera suavely. "Did you think all Mexicans were like Pasquale? He was a great man, but he was a savage. Also, he was a child at statecraft. I used to warn him to cooeperate with the United States if he wished to succeed. But he was ignorant and eaten up with egotism." "You're right he was, general." "A new policy is now in operation. In freeing you I ask only that you set me and my army right with your people. Let them understand that we stand for a free Mexico and for justice." The hands of the two men gripped. "I'll sure do my share, general." "We're to have a little luncheon before you go. Captain Girard and your friends are to be my guests. You will join us; not so?" "Gracias, general. Count me in." The black eyes of the Mexican twinkled. "Your wound--does it greatly trouble you, senor?" "Some. When I walk." "Too bad. I was going to ask you to step upstairs and tell Senorita Seymour that General Culvera will be delighted to have her join us at luncheon. But, of course, since your leg troubles you--" "It's a heap better already, general. You're giving me good medicine." "Ah! I think you know the lady's room. But perhaps I had better call a peon." The eyes of the cowpuncher were bright. "Now, don't you, general. Keep on talking and you're liable to spoil what you've said," answered Steve with his old gay laugh. He hobbled out of the room and up the stairs. The door of Ruth's room was open. She sat huddled in a chair looking straight before her. There were shadows under her young eyes that never should have been there. Her lissome figure had lost its gallantry, the fine poise that had given her a note of wild freedom. Steve had come up so quietly that she evidently had not heard, for she did not turn her weary head to see who it was. He stood a moment, hesitating on the threshold. She sat without moving, a pathetic picture of despair and grief. A man had died for her yesterday. Another man was to die to-day because he had tried to save her. She herself was in danger still. The tragedy of life had carried her beyond tears. When he moved forward a step she turned. Her lips parted in surprise. The dark eyes under her tumbled, blue-black hair stared in astonishment. Slowly she rose, never lifting her gaze from him. With a little cry of wonder she stretched her arms toward this man who had come to her as if from the dead. In two strides he reached her and swept the girl into his arms. He kissed the tired eyes, the tousled hair, the soft cheeks into which the color began to flow. She clung to him, afraid to let him go, uncertain whether it was a reality. At last she spoke. "It _is_ you, isn't it? I thought ... they told me ... that you...." He laughed softly with the joy of it all. "I'm free--free to go home with you, Ruth,--back to God's country, to friends and life and love." "Are you going to take me, too?" she asked with naive simplicity.