hand. A certain distance from the cross it stopped, abruptly as if it met a palpable barrier there which it could not pass, legs set stiffly against all urging to compel it on. No amount of punishment that Roberto had in his heels could drive it a yard nearer.
Roberto had gained his desire in one thing, at least, if not over the horse. Helena Sprague had appeared at a window in the east wing of the mansion, where she stood grasping the bars, the agony of her white face plain to Henderson across the fifty yards or more that separated them.
Henderson had not seen her come to the window. Between caution to guard himself from discovery, and his furious resentment of Roberto's cruelty to the horse, he had not watched the house closely. Now he saw someone behind Helena, whom he concluded to be Doña Carlota, attempting to draw her away from the window. Helena turned on this person with the sudden bursting of anger, and drove her back into the room.
Now that he had won the spectator for whom he had been playing this prelude to his principal entertainment, Roberto's spirits plainly rose high. The anger that had distorted his features but a moment before cleared away; a smile broadened on his heavy lips, a flush darkened his face. Satisfaction was lined there, the triumph of vengeance realized. His teeth gleamed in his spreading smile, proof that his pleasure in Helena's evident suffering was both keen and sincere. It was such
