"Who was he?" "Mr. Cavendish--oh!" It was a cry of complete reaction; the room reeled about her and she would have fallen headlong had not Westcott clasped the slender form closely in his arms. An instant he stood there gazing down into her face. Then he turned toward Brennan. "Leave us alone, Dan," he said simply. "Get that gang of blacklegs out of here." CHAPTER XXXII: IN THE TWO CABINS The marshal's lips smiled. "Sure, Jim," he drawled, "anything to oblige, although this is a new one on me. Come on, Matt; it seems the gentleman does not wish to be disturbed---- Well, neither would I under such circumstances. Here you! line up there in single file, and get a move on you--pronto! Show 'em what I mean, Matt; put that guy that talks English at the head---- Yes, he's the one. Now look here, _amigo_, you march straight out through that door, and head for the bunk-house--do you get that?" "_Si, senor_; I savvy!" "Well, you better; tell those fellows that if one of 'em makes a break he's goin' ter be a dead Mex--will yer? Get to the other side of them, Matt; now step ahead--not too fast." Westcott watched the procession file out, still clasping the partially unconscious girl in his arms. Moore, bringing up the rear, disappeared through the entrance, and vanished into the night without. Except for the three motionless bodies, they were alone. The lamp on the high shelf flared fitfully in the wind, and the charred embers on the floor exhibited a glowing spark of colour. From a distance Brennan's voice growled out a gruff order to his line of prisoners. Then all was still. The eyes of the girl opened slowly, her lids trembling, but as they rested on Westcott's face, she smiled. "You are glad I came?" "Glad! Why I never really knew what gladness meant before." He bent lower, his heart pounding fiercely, strange words struggling for utterance. "You love me?" She looked at him, all the fervent Irish soul of her in her eyes. Then one arm stole upward to his shoulder. "As you love me," she whispered softly, "as you love me!" "I can ask no more, sweetheart," he breathed soberly, and kissed her. At last she drew back, still restrained by his arms, but with her eyes suddenly grave and thoughtful. "We forget," she chided, "where we are. You must let me go now, and see if he is alive. I will wait on the bench, here." "But you said he had been killed." "I do not know; there was no time for me to be sure of that. The shot struck him here in the chest, and when he fell he knocked me down. I tore open his shirt, and bound up the wound hastily; it did not bleed much. He never spoke after that, and lay perfectly still." "Poor old Fred. I'll do what I can for him--I'll not be away a minute, dear."