Gordon? He is
... uninjured?"
"Beaten and mauled and starved, but still of the gayest courage,"
answered the Spaniard with enthusiasm. "Did I not say that he was a
hero? My cousin, I say it again. The fear of death is not in his heart."
He did not see the gleam in her dark eyes, the flush that beat into her
dusky face. "Starved as well as beaten, Manuel?"
"They were trying to force him to give up his claim to the valley. But
he--as I live the American is hard as Gibraltar."
"They dared to starve him--to torture him. I shall see that they are
punished," she cried with the touch of feminine ferocity that is the
heritage of the south.
"No need, Valencia," returned Pesquiera with a dry little laugh. "Mr.
Gordon has promised himself to attend to that."
He told her the story from first to last. Intently she listened, scarce
breathing until he had finished.
Manuel had told the tale with scrupulous fairness, but already her
sympathies were turning.
"And he wouldn't agree not to prosecute?" she asked.
"No. It is his right to do so if he likes, Valencia."
She brushed this aside with an impatient wave of her hand. "Oh, his
right! Doesn't he owe something to us--to me--and especially to you?"
"No, he owes me nothing. What I did was done for you, and not for him,"
the Spaniard replied instantly.
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