She put her hands to her face, and then hid it against the pony’s neck, her slight form trembling violently beneath the touch of his fingers.  The strange actions of the girl, her continued silence, half frightened him.

“Maybe yer a-ain’t ready yit?” he questioned, his manner full of apology.

“Oh, senor, I cannot say dat—­sure I cannot,” she sobbed, her face yet hidden.  “Maybe I say so some time ven I know eet bettah how eet ought to be; si, maybe so.  But not now; I not tink it be jus’ right to say now.  I not angry—­no, no!  I ver’ glad you tink so of Mercedes—­it make me mooch joy.  I not cry for dat, senor; I cry for odder tings.  Maybe you know some time, an’ be ver’ sorry vid me.  But I not cry any more.  See, I stan’ up straight, an’ look you in de face dis vay.”  She drew her hand swiftly across her eyes.  “Dar, de tear all gone; now I be brav’, now I not be ’fraid.  You not ask me dat now—­not now; to-morrow, nex’ veek, maybe I know better how to say de trut’ vat vas in my heart—­maybe I know den; now eet all jumble up.  I tink I know, but de vord not come like I vant eet.”

He turned silently away from her, leading the pony forward, his head bent low, his shoulders stooped.  There was a dejection apparent about the action which her eyes could not mistake.  She touched him pleadingly.

“You no ver’ angry Mercedes, senor?”

Brown half turned about, and rested one great hand upon her soft hair in mute caress.

“N-no, little girl, it a-ain’t that,” he admitted slowly.  “Only I ’m b-blamed if I jest e-exactly grasp yer s-style.  I reckon I ’ll kn-know what yer mean s-sometime.”

Could he have seen clearly he might have marked the swift, hot tears dimming her eyes, but he never dreamed of their presence, for her lips were laughing.

“Maybe so, senor, maybe.  I glad you not angry, for I no like dat.  Eet vas nice I fool you so; dat vas vat make de men lofe, ven dey not know everyting.  Ven day know dem maybe eet all be over vid.  So maybe I show you sometime, maybe not—­quien sabe?”

If her lightly spoken words hurt, he realized the utter futility of striving then to penetrate their deeper meaning.  They advanced slowly, moving in more closely against the great ridge of rocks where the denser shadows clung, the man’s natural caution becoming apparent as his mind returned to a consideration of the dangerous mission upon which they were embarked.  To-morrow would leave him free from all this, but now he must conduct her in safety to that mist-shrouded plain below.

They had moved forward for perhaps a dozen yards, the obedient pony stepping as silently as themselves, Mercedes a foot or two to the rear, when Brown suddenly halted, staring fixedly at something slightly at one side of their path.  There, like a huge baleful eye glaring angrily at him, appeared a dull red glow.  An instant he doubted, wondered, his mind confused.  Tiny sparks sputtered out into the darkness, and the miner understood.  He had blindly stumbled upon a lighted fuse, a train of destruction leading to some deed of hell.  With an oath he leaped recklessly forward, stamping the creeping flame out beneath his feet, crushing it lifeless between his heavy boots and the rock.