Then close before her eyes burst another blinding red flash, and close at her ears bellowed another report. Unable to stand, Madeline slipped down onto the bench. Her drifting faculties refused clearly to record what transpired during the next few moments; presently, however, as her mind steadied somewhat, she heard, though as in a dream, the voice of the padre hurrying over strange words. It ceased, and then the cowboy’s voice stirred her. “Lady, say Si—Si. Say it—quick! Say it—Si!” From sheer suggestion, a force irresistible at this moment when her will was clamped by panic, she spoke the word. “And now, lady—so we can finish this properly—what’s your name?” Still obeying mechanically, she told him. He stared for a while, as if the name had awakened associations in a mind somewhat befogged. He leaned back unsteadily. Madeline heard the expulsion of his breath, a kind of hard puff, not unusual in drunken men. “What name?” he demanded. “Madeline Hammond. I am Alfred Hammond’s sister.” He put his hand up and brushed at an imaginary something before his eyes. Then he loomed over her, and that hand, now shaking a little, reached out for her veil. Before he could touch it, however, she swept it back, revealing her face. “You’re—not—Majesty Hammond?” How strange—stranger than anything that had ever happened to her before—was it to hear that name on the lips of this cowboy! It was a name by which she was familiarly known, though only those nearest and dearest to her had the privilege of using it. And now it revived her dulled faculties, and by an effort she regained control of herself. “You are Majesty Hammond,” he replied; and this time he affirmed wonderingly rather than questioned. Madeline rose and faced him. “Yes, I am.” He slammed his gun back into its holster. “Well, I reckon we won’t go on with it, then.” “With what, sir? And why did you force me to say Si to this priest?” “I reckon that was a way I took to show him you’d be willing to get married.” “Oh!... You—you!...” Words failed her. This appeared to galvanize the cowboy into action. He grasped the padre and led him toward the door, cursing and threatening, no doubt enjoining secrecy. Then he pushed him across the threshold and stood there breathing hard and wrestling with himself. “Here—wait—wait a minute, Miss—Miss Hammond,” he said, huskily. “You could fall into worse company than mine—though I reckon you sure think not. I’m pretty drunk, but I’m—all right otherwise. Just wait—a minute.”