Then he seemed to sink down, head lowered upon his breast, in utter shame. Stillwell’s great hand swept to the bowed shoulder, and he turned to Madeline. “Miss Majesty, I reckon you’d be wise to tell all,” said the old cattleman, gravely. “There ain’t one of us who could misunderstand any motive or act of yours. Mebbe a stroke of lightnin’ might clear this murky air. Whatever Gene Stewart did that onlucky night—you tell it.” Madeline’s dignity and self-possession had been disturbed by Stewart’s importunity. She broke into swift, disconnected speech: “He came into the station—a few minutes after I got there. I asked-to be shown to a hotel. He said there wasn’t any that would accommodate married women. He grasped my hand—looked for a wedding-ring. Then I saw he was—he was intoxicated. He told me he would go for a hotel porter. But he came back with a padre—Padre Marcos. The poor priest was—terribly frightened. So was I. Stewart had turned into a devil. He fired his gun at the padre’s feet. He pushed me into a bench. Again he shot—right before my face. I—I nearly fainted. But I heard him cursing the padre—heard the padre praying or chanting—I didn’t know what. Stewart tried to make me say things in Spanish. All at once he asked my name. I told him. He jerked at my veil. I took it off. Then he threw his gun down—pushed the padre out of the door. That was just before the vaqueros approached with Bonita. Padre Marcos must have seen them—must have heard them. After that Stewart grew quickly sober. He was mortified—distressed—stricken with shame. He told me he had been drinking at a wedding—I remember, it was Ed Linton’s wedding. Then he explained—the boys were always gambling—he wagered he would marry the first girl who arrived at El Cajon. I happened to be the first one. He tried to force me to marry him. The rest—relating to the assault on the vaquero—I have already told you.” Madeline ended, out of breath and panting, with her hands pressed upon her heaving bosom. Revelation of that secret liberated emotion; those hurried outspoken words had made her throb and tremble and burn. Strangely then she thought of Alfred and his wrath. But he stood motionless, as if dazed. Stillwell was trying to holster up the crushed Stewart. Hawe rolled his red eyes and threw back his head. “Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho! Say, Sneed, you didn’t miss any of it, did ye? Haw, haw! Best I ever heerd in all my born days. Ho, ho!” Then he ceased laughing, and with glinting gaze upon Madeline, insolent and vicious and savage, he began to drawl: “Wal now, my lady, I reckon your story, if it tallies with Bonita’s an’ Padre Marcos’s, will clear Gene Stewart in the eyes of the court.” Here he grew slower, more biting, sharper and harder of face. “But you needn’t expect Pat Hawe or the court to swaller thet part of your story—about bein’ detained unwillin’!”