"You know now," he answered quietly.
"Is love all sighs and vows?" she cried impatiently. "Will it not sacrifice pride and vanity for the object of its devotion?"
"Everything but honor," answered the man steadfastly.
She made a gesture of despair.
"What is this honor you talk so much about? It is neither Christian nor lawful nor right."
"It is a part of me, Valencia."
"Then your ideas are archaic. The duel was for a time when every man had to seek his personal redress. There is law in this twentieth century."
"Not as between man and man in the case of a personal indignity--at least, not for Manuel Pesquiera."
"But it is so needless. We know you are brave; he knows it, too. Surely your vanity----"
He smiled a little sadly.
"I think it is not vanity, but something deeper. None of my ancestors could have tolerated this stigma, nor can their son. My will has nothing to do with it, and my desire still less. It is kismet."
"Then you must know the truth--that if you kill this man I can never----"
"Never what?"
"Never marry you."
"Why?"
"His blood would stand between us."
"Do you mean that you--love him?"
Her dark eyes met his steadily.
"I don't think I mean that, Manuel. How could I mean that, since I love you and am betrothed to you? Sometimes I hate him. He is so insolent in his daring. Then, too, he is my enemy, and he has come here to set this happy valley to hate and evil. Yet, if I should hurt him, it would stand between us forever."
"I am sorry."
"Only sorry, Manuel?"
He clamped his teeth on the torrent of protest that rose within him when she handed him back his ring. It would do no good to speak more. The immutable fact stood between them.
"I did not know life could be so hard--and cruel," she cried out in a burst of passion.
She went to the open window and looked out upon the placid, peaceful valley. She had a swift, supple way of moving, as if her muscles responded with effortless ease to her volition; but the young man noticed that to-night there was a drag to her motions.
His heart yearned toward her. He longed mightily to take her in his arms and tell her that he would do as she wished. But, as he had said, something in him more potent than vanity, than pride, than his will, held him to the course he had set for himself. His views of honor might be archaic and ridiculous, but he lived by his code as tenaciously as had his fathers. Gordon had insulted and humiliated him publicly. He must apologize or give him satisfaction. Until he had done one or the other Manuel could not live at peace with himself. He had put a powerful curb upon his desire to wait as long as he had. Circumstances had for a time taken the matter out of his hands, but the time had come when he meant to press his claims. The American might refuse the duel; he could not refrain from defending himself when Pesquiera attacked.