he ordered young Dominguez, who was half-risen in some design of his own courageous young heart.
Padre Mateo commanded the young man down with frantic hand, for he could see, as plainly as if the price stood printed on Alvitre's face, the cheap valuation he set on a human life.
"What is this?" Juan Molinero asked, hands on the table-edge as if to rise.
"It is the thief of whom we spoke but a little while ago," Padre Mateo whispered. "God save us now!"
"When you speak nothing good of a man, shut your window, Dominguez, and see that your shutters are closed so tight one little word cannot pass," the outlaw said, making a meaning gesture with his shoulder toward the open casement. "A man might ride on if he heard a kind word fly out, but what is to be expected of priests who make slaves of helpless Indians, and fat farmers who get gifts from the king? So I sound on your door, Dominguez; I step into your house to take from you a thousand dollars. Your wife will bring it to me, while you stand here ready to be killed if one little hair raises on your head."
"I haven't so much money, not a tenth of it," Dominguez said.
"That is a lie!" Alvitre charged. "You have sold hides and tallow lately. There is money in your chest."
"A little, only a very little," Dominguez pro-
