She hung on his answer.
"Horses don't know who they really belong to. So they are branded. There is
no reason why women equally ignorant shouldn't be similarly treated." Every
word was measured, uttered with fearful distinctness. His hand shot behind
him on the table, where "Red" had left his spurs. Lucia saw the swift
movement.
"No!" she screamed, "Oh, no, Morgan, not that!" Her senses reeled. The
earth crashed beneath her.
But he paid no heed. He seized her fiercely by one arm, reaching far out to
do so, and, gorilla-like, he had her, this weak flower, in his clutches. He
pinioned her deftly, and thrust her lovely body back, until her face looked
upward from the table. With his right hand, he started to tear her
beautiful face to shreds with the cruel spurs, forever to ruin her glorious
features, when, as if through a miracle, the door was thrown wide open, and
a strange figure stood on the sill--a Mexican in a great sombrero, a
flaming red kerchief at his throat, and eyes that gleamed and glistened,
teeth that were like the whitest ivory.
He stood, with arms crossed, surveying the scene. If lightning had struck
the adobe, Pell could not have been more dazed.
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