ROBERTO had yielded like a lamb in a leash, spreading his arms to the cross as if to embrace his bride. The fear of death was over him, the folly of resistance plain to his eyes. It was better to yield to a few minutes of humiliation than to lie stiff in the grave forever. Humiliation could be requited by brave deeds of reprisal and revenge, but not so death. The Yankee might lay defiling hands on the body of a Mexican gentleman for the little moment of his power, but he was only one Yankee in a country of Mexican gentlemen. Roberto swore by the sacred blood that he would feed this Yankee's heart to the fire.
Henderson stood a few moments as if waiting for somebody to step forward and test the sincerity of his edict, the bridle rein of Roberto's late mount in his hand. There was more fear of the Yankee sailor with three pistols in his belt than love of the patron's son among the men who served, free and bond, on Don Abrahan's estate. None came forward to cut the young master's shameful ropes and set him free.
They had big eyes for the man from the ship, as they spoke of him, who had sprung up into the estate of hero from his obscurity well in accord
