Once more he had before his eyes the vision of radiant beauty to which his mind had recurred several times during the past two days, though no emotion mingled with his admiration. He was so far from any thought of concealing this admiration that the young woman, on recovering consciousness, surprised it in his gaze. She smiled: "I'm all right now!" she said. "I was only stunned." "You're not in pain?" "No. I am used to accidents. I've often had to fall from my horse for the films. . . . This one's dead, isn't he? Poor creature!" "You've saved my life," said Simon. "We're quits," she replied. Her expression was grave and harmonized with her slightly austere features. Her's was one of those beautiful faces which are peculiarly disconcerting by reason of the contrasts which they present, being at once passionate and chaste, noble and sensuous, pensive and enticing. Simon asked her, point blank: "Was it you who came to my room yesterday, first in broad daylight and afterwards at night?" She blushed, but admitted: "Yes, it was I." And, at a movement of Simon's, she added: "I felt uneasy. People were being killed, in town and in the hotel. I had to watch over you, who had saved my life." "I thank you," he said once more. "Don't thank me. I have been doing things in spite of myself . . . these last two days. You seem to me so different from other men! . . . But I ought not to speak to you like this. Don't be vexed with me!" Simon held out his hand to her, when suddenly she assumed a listening attitude and then, after a moment's attention, straightened her clothes, hid her hair beneath her kerchief and put on her hat. "It's Antonio," she said, in a different tone. "He must have heard the firing. Don't let him know that you recognized me, will you?" "Why?" asked Simon, in surprise. She replied, in some embarrassment: "It's better. . . . Antonio is very masterful. He forbade me to come. It was only when he was naming the three Indians of the escort that he recognized me; I had taken the fourth Indian's horse. . . . So, you see. . . ." She did not complete her sentence. A horseman had made his appearance on the ridge. When he came up to them, Dolores had unfastened her saddle-bags and was strapping them to the saddle of Simon's horse. Antonio asked no questions. There was no exchange of explanations. With a glance he reconstructed the scene, examined the dead animal and, addressing the young woman by her name, perhaps to show that he was not taken in, said: "Have my horse, Dolores."