"I'll try to be ready then."
Alma closed the door, dismissing him with that. Teresa came sweating from the closet, lifted her skirt, drew a carving-knife from her garter.
"I slipped it from the dish, for there is no gun!" she said.
Teresa's eyes glittered brighter than the steel; her bosom rose in exultant swell.
Alma started back, shocked, it seemed, by the brutality of the suggestion of that barbarous instrument. Then she took it, and laid it on the bureau close beside the little gilt clock.
"Can we hold them off till Barrett comes?" she wondered, speaking softly, eyes on the little clock.
"I will stand at the door," Teresa said hopefully, "I will say 'She is not dressed yet; in five minutes.' Or, 'She is at her prayers. For the sake of Our Señor, master, let her empty her poor heart!' And then, if all fails, and you must go—the knife!"
"The knife!" said Alma, her eyes still on the clock.
"When he takes your hand, draw the knife from your bosom, where I will hide it as the women of my country know how. He may lean a little, the devil in his eyes, and you must draw him and turn him, gently by the hand, so you can see the buttons of his vest. Count to the third button—it is there that the heart lies in a man—and strike! Drive it through him like the seven swords of Our Mother of Sorrows! Strike for your virginity!"
Teresa struck the blow in the fervency of her passion, sweeping her strong arm at an imaginary bride-
