"What's that got to do with it? She's mine. Send for a priest and have us married," the other man demanded bluntly. "Not so fast, amigo," remonstrated Pasquale softly. "Give her time--a few days--quien sabe?--she may change her mind again." Harrison choked on his anger. He was suspicious of this suavity, of this sudden respect for a girl's wishes. Since when had the old despot become so scrupulous as to risk offending one who had served him a good deal and might aid him in more serious matters? The prizefighter could guess only one reason for the general's attitude. His jealousy began to smoke at once. "She can change her mind afterward just as well. If we're married now, then I'm sure of her," the prizefighter insisted doggedly. Impulsively the girl swept into that part of the room within the view of Steve. She knelt in front of Pasquale and caught at his hand. "Send me home--back to my mother. I'm only a girl. You don't make war on girls, do you?" she pleaded. Had she only known it, the very sweetness of her troubled youth, the shadows under the starry eyes edging the wild-rose cheeks, the allure of her lines and soft flesh, fought potently against her desire for a safe-conduct home. The greedy, treacherous little eyes of the insurgent chief glittered. He shook his head. "No, senorita. That is not possible. But you shall stay here--under the protection of Gabriel Pasquale himself. You shall have choice--Senor Harrison if you wish, another if you prefer it so. Take time. Perhaps--who knows?" He smiled and bowed with the gallantry of a bear as he kissed her hand. "No--no. I want to go home," she sobbed. "Young ladies don't always know what is best for them. Behold, we shall marry you to a soldier, one of rank. From the general down, you shall have choice," Pasquale promised largely. Harrison scowled. He did not at all like the turn things were taking. "Not as long as I'm alive," he said savagely. "She's mine, I tell you." The Mexican looked directly at him with a face as hard as jade. "So you don't expect to live long, senor. Is that it? We shall all mourn. Yes, indeed." He turned decisively to the white-faced girl. "Go to sleep, muchacha. To-morrow we shall talk. Gabriel Pasquale is your friend. All shall be well with you. None shall insult you on peril of his life. Buenos!" With a gesture of his hand he pointed the door to Harrison. The eyes of the two men clashed stormily. It was those of the American that finally gave way sulkily. Pasquale had power to enforce his commands and the other knew he would not hesitate to use it. The prizefighter slouched out of the room with the general at his heels. With a little gesture that betrayed the despair of her sick heart the girl turned and flung herself face down on the bed. Sobs shook her slender body. Her fingers clutched unconsciously at the rough weave of the blanket upon which she lay. CHAPTER XIX THE TEXAN