ing they might see the fearful instrument with which her palomita, her little dove, would strike for her chastity and honor if they must crowd forward the terrible moment.
"We'll wait here. Quick! do it up any way."
Nearing gave the order more to Alma than Teresa, Dale Findlay, like a prompting demon, close behind him.
"You can hurry neither a corpse nor a bride, señor," Teresa answered him, to all outward appearances quite composed. But what a tumult was in her pained bosom, what a straining for the sound of hoofbeats in the night!
"It's almost ten, Alma," Nearing said.
"I'll be only a little while longer, Uncle Hal."
"We'll wait here," he said.
Teresa closed and locked the door. Then she began to plat her dear one's hair, gathering it into a great braid as thick as a ship's hawser.
"They'll break the door down!" Alma whispered.
Teresa let the great rope of hair fall dangling, the ungathered ends of it almost sweeping the floor.
"Here—the knife!" she whispered, bringing it quickly. "We must be ready!"
"Your hair will do, Alma," Nearing called, impatiently. "You can finish it afterwards. Open the door!"
"Here—a little slip of the hand into the bosom, and you are saved!" Teresa whispered, hiding the knife quickly. 'One moment, señor—one little moment to say a prayer!"
