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 ror at the foot of her bed, did not answer.

"She is dressing, señor," Teresa answered for her.

"Alma!" Suspiciously, sharply, knocking again.

"Yes, Uncle Hal."

"Come! we can't wait any longer. Mr. Thomson is ready."

"As soon as I change my dress," Alma promised.

"Five minutes?" he said.

"I'll do the best I can, Uncle Hal."

Alma held the tremor of fear out of her voice by a struggle, but with the best she could do it was wild and unnatural. For in the light of the lamp the long knife gleamed on the bureau beside the little clock.

Nearing went away, to come again, and not alone, in less than the allotted time. Teresa answered the knock, opening the door a little way. Alma sat with her abundant hair falling over her shoulders, and down beside her white face like a sorrowing madonna.

"When I fix her hair—I am parting it down the middle like a married woman's," Teresa said.

It was plain to Nearing, and to Findlay, who stood at his shoulder, that this was true. They could see Alma there beside her white bed, seated on a low rocking chair, her dark-red hair around her shoulders. She was dressed as if she meant to mount and ride. Findlay whispered in Nearing's ear.

"Be quick about it, we can't have any more of this delay," Nearing said, plainly repeating an order.

"For the love of Our Señor, give her a little time!" Teresa pleaded.

She closed the door to all but a narrow crack, fear-