“I am your wife!” she whispered to him.  In that moment, throbbing, exalted, quivering in her first sweet, tumultuous surrender to love, she would have given her all, her life, to be in his arms again, to meet his lips, to put forever out of his power any thought of wild sacrifice.

* * *

And on the morning of the next day, when Madeline went out upon the porch, Stillwell, haggard and stern, with a husky, incoherent word, handed her a message from El Cajon.  She read: 

El Capitan Stewart captured by rebel soldiers in fight at Agua Prieta yesterday.  He was a sharpshooter in the Federal ranks.  Sentenced to death Thursday at sunset.

XXIV The Ride

“Stillwell!”

Madeline’s cry was more than the utterance of a breaking heart.  It was full of agony.  But also it uttered the shattering of a structure built of false pride, of old beliefs, of bloodless standards, of ignorance of self.  It betrayed the final conquest of her doubts, and out of their darkness blazed the unquenchable spirit of a woman who had found herself, her love, her salvation, her duty to a man, and who would not be cheated.

The old cattleman stood mute before her, staring at her white face, at her eyes of flame.

“Stillwell!  I am Stewart’s wife!”

“My Gawd, Miss Majesty!” he burst out.  “I knowed somethin’ turrible was wrong.  Aw, sure it’s a pity—­”

“Do you think I’ll let him be shot when I know him now, when I’m no longer blind, when I love him?” she asked, with passionate swiftness.  “I will save him.  This is Wednesday morning.  I have thirty-six hours to save his life.  Stillwell, send for Link and the car!”

She went into her office.  Her mind worked with extraordinary rapidity and clearness.  Her plan, born in one lightning-like flash of thought, necessitated the careful wording of telegrams to Washington, to New York, to San Antonio.  These were to Senators, Representatives, men high in public and private life, men who would remember her and who would serve her to their utmost.  Never before had her position meant anything to her comparable with what it meant now.  Never in all her life had money seemed the power that it was then.  If she had been poor!  A shuddering chill froze the thought at its inception.  She dispelled heartbreaking thoughts.  She had power.  She had wealth.  She would set into operation all the unlimited means these gave her—­the wires and pulleys and strings underneath the surface of political and international life, the open, free, purchasing value of money or the deep, underground, mysterious, incalculably powerful influence moved by gold.  She could save Stewart.  She must await results—­deadlocked in feeling, strained perhaps almost beyond endurance, because the suspense would be great; but she would allow no possibility of failure to enter her mind.