“Then murder again!” retorted Paloma, enraged; “--my mother, the dear father, the guinea-pigs which _Mamita_ has just given me--all! So you will have my heart alone--perhaps.” And she laughed harshly. There was a suspicion of merriment in his eyes, but he pulled a long face. “I am going to prison for the sake of my love,” he protested. “I _must_ go to prison, for I have not a cent with which to pay the fine.” Now Paloma almost shrieked in her triumph. “_Good!_” she cried. “And perish in prison. I am pleased! I am pleased! And because you have been in prison I shall never marry you. The killing of Miguel was very much. But a prison is much more. I could never marry a man who had been in prison. My pride would not let me.” “Then all is over between us?” questioned Anastacio, meekly. “All! _All!_ I tell you I would not marry you now if you were covered thick with gold and silver and jewels from your head to your ugly feet--no, not even if you had thousands of pearls as big as this one.” And she flashed the ring before his dark eyes. “In that case,” he went on, “I think it but honest that you should give back this pearl.” And he watched her keenly. “The pearl!” she cried. She was walking to and fro, her head high “The pearl will pay me for the loss of Miguel. Yesterday I said, ‘I shall give Anastacio back the ring, for I hate the sight of it. And, besides, the pearl is doubtless only glass, after all, and I can easily get a better.’ But now--I shall keep it.” (This with an imperious glance of her eyes.) “Miguel was not worth so much,” argued Anastacio. “He was little and thin. And the pearl----” His eyes rested upon it, where it flashed on the hand at her side. “You shall not have the pearl,” she declared, “not if you _die_ asking for it. You killed my pretty Miguel--and it was not even on a feast-day. So now, this is how you pay.” As she crossed the floor with slow grace, she smiled mockingly. Again his look rested longingly on the round whiteness of his gift. “Ah, Paloma,” he said tenderly, “you but increase my passion as you storm. Little dove, your sweet mouth is the colour of pepper-tree berries. Your eyes----” “Have done with my mouth and my eyes!” ordered Paloma, pausing against the window. But she spoke perhaps a shade less angrily than before. “They are not for you. Go hunt among the Indian girls for a wife. One of these you can lead about on a rope, as you do your cows. But, ah, I pity the one you would choose! A squaw is too good for you--much too good.” “I must speak of your beauty,” insisted Anastacio. “It fills my eyes like the light of the sun. When I shall see it no more the night will fall for me. O my Paloma!” And he took one step toward her. She waved him back with her two hands. “Keep your compliments!” she said haughtily. “I do not want them. And take yourself off. I never wish to see you again.”