He reflected that it is a trait of the semi-civilized and of children that they like their tales often retold. But he did not say so. He was holding that in reserve. Instead, he changed the subject, with an abrupt inquiry as to whether she meant to ride to-day. "I suppose not?" he added. "I do, though," she said perversely, as she bent her head and tried to put into order the tumbled mass of her hair. "I am going at eleven o'clock." "Alone?" "No, not alone." "It is bitterly cold." "I don't mind, and neither does Captain Landor." Her guardian had recently gotten his captaincy. Brewster's irritation waxed. "Landor again?" he queried suggestively. "Landor again," she yawned, ignoring his meaning-fraught tone. But she watched his face from under her long lashes. He glanced over his shoulder at the door. It was closed; so he leaned forward and spoke in a lower voice. "Felipa, are you going to marry Landor, or are you not?" It was more than a mere impertinent question, and she did not pretend to ignore it any longer. She clasped her hands slowly about her knees and looked straight at him. But he was unabashed, "What is he to you?" he insisted. She thought for a moment before she answered. Then she spoke deliberately, and there was a purring snarl under her voice. "It is none of your business that I can see. But I will tell you this much, he is a man I respect; and that is more than I have said of you when I have been asked the same question." "It is not only my business," he said, overlooking the last, and bending more eagerly forward, "it is not only my business, it is the business of the whole post. You are being talked about, my dear young lady." She sprang to her feet so suddenly that her arm struck him a blow in the face, and stood close in front of him, digging her nails into her palms and breathing hard. "If you--if you dare to say that again, I will kill you. I can do it. You know that I can, and I will. I mean what I say, I will kill you." And she did mean what she said, for the moment, at any rate. There was just as surely murder in her soul as though those long, strong hands had been closed on his throat. Her teeth were bared and her whole face was distorted with fury and the effort of controlling it. She drew up a chair, after a moment, and sat in it. It was she who was leaning forward now, and he had shrunk back, a little cowed. "I know what you are trying to do," she told him, more quietly, her lips quivering into a sneer, "you are trying to frighten me into marrying you. But you can't do it. I never meant to, and now I would die first." He saw that the game had reached that stage where he must play his trump card, if he were to have any chance. "You are a mean little thing," he laughed. "It is the Apache blood, I suppose." She sat for a moment without answering. It was less astonishment than that she did not understand. She knitted her brow in a puzzled frown.