Don Abrahan paused, eyes fixed on the warehouse across the dusty courtyard. A little while so; then he shook the paper in his hand as if to rouse himself from wandering after unprofitable things—perhaps justice and mercy were among them—tossed it from him, took up another.
"And I am certain you are coming to the price I am to pay to bring this happy end around," Helena said.
Don Abrahan was a keen man; the scorn of hee voice was not lost on him. Likewise he was a hard man, upon whom sarcasm could not make a scar.
"There is such a thing as recompense for a loss," he said, with the tentative suggestion of a bribe-seeker. "My son was to marry you. Through your refusal to carry out the contract, he loses your lands and property. I have drawn a deed, antedating this crisis in your affairs. It is one little paper balancing another, Helena. For the deed I give you this. My memory is erased; the foul crime of treason will not stand against your name."
Don Abrahan had come to it, and come to it boldly. Now that he had no further need of playing with words to lead up to his purpose in his way of ancient diplomacy, he could be as blunt as any Yankee captain that ever sailed the seas. He looked Helena straight in the eyes, his hard, thin face unsympathetic as bone.
"So the case stands," he said.
"I have heard it," she replied.
