Beth Norvell

"He is nothing to me," she said, earnestly, "absolutely nothing. I

despise him--that is all. He is unworthy the thought of any woman."

The slender figure of the Mexican swayed as though stricken by a blow,

the fierce, tigerish passion dying out of her face, her free hand

seeking her throat as though choking.

"Nothing?" she gasped, incredulously. "Sapristi, I think you lie,

señorita. Nothing? Vy you go to him in secret? Vy you stay and talk

so long? I not understand."

"He sent for me; he wished me to aid him in a business matter."

The other stared incredulous, her form growing rigid with gathering

suspicion that this fair American was only endeavoring to make her a

fool through the use of soft speech. The white teeth gleamed again

maliciously.

"You speak false to Mercedes," she cried hotly, her voice trembling.

"Vy he send for you, señorita? You know him?"

There was a bare instant of seeming hesitation, then the quiet, better

controlled voice answered soberly: "Yes, in the East, three years ago."

Like a flash of powder, the girl of the hot-blooded South burst into

fresh flame of passion, her foot stamping the floor, her black eyes

glowing with unrestrained anger.

"Dios de Dios! Eet ees as I thought. He lofe you, not Mercedes. Vy

I not kill you?--hey?"

Miss Norvell met her fiercely threatening look, her single step of

advance, without tremor or lowering of the eyes. She even released her

grasp upon the uplifted knife, as if in utter contempt. For a moment

they confronted each other, and then, as suddenly as she had broken

into flame, the excitable young Mexican burst into tears. As though

this unexpected exhibition of feeling had inspired the action, the

other as quickly decided upon her course.

"Listen to me, girl," she exclaimed gravely, again grasping the lowered

knife hand. "I am going to trust you implicitly. You feel deeply; you

will understand when I tell you all. You call me a fine lady because I

hold myself aloof from the senseless revelry of this mining camp; and

you believe you hate me because you suppose I feel above you. But you

are a woman, and, whatever your past life may have been, your heart

will respond to the story of a woman's trouble. I 'm going to tell you

mine, not so much for my sake as for your own. I am not afraid of your

knife; why, its sharp point would be almost welcome, were it not that I

have serious work to do in the world before I die. And you are going

to aid me in accomplishing it. You say you do not really know now

whether you truly love or hate this man, this Farnham. But I know for

myself beyond all doubt. All that once might have blossomed into love

in my heart has been withered into hatred, for I know him to be a moral

leper, a traitor to honor, a remorseless wretch, unworthy the tender

remembrance, of any woman. You suppose I went to him this night

through any deliberate choice of my own? Almighty God, no! I went

because I was compelled; because there was no possible escape. Now, I

am going to tell you why."