Teresa turned very white. Curson was prepared for an outburst of
fury--perhaps even another attack. But the crushed and beaten woman only
gazed at him with frightened and imploring eyes. "For God's sake, Dick,
don't say that!"

The amiable cynic was staggered. His good-humor and a certain chivalrous
instinct he could not repress got the better of him. He shrugged his
shoulders. "What I thay, and what you DO, Teretha, needn't make us
quarrel. I've no claim on you--I know it. Only--" a vivid sense of the
ridiculous, powerful in men of his stamp, completed her victory--"only
don't thay anything about my coming down here to cut you out from
the--the--THE SHERIFF." He gave utterance to a short but unaffected
laugh, made a slight grimace, and turned to go.

Teresa did not join in his mirth. Awkward as it would have been if he
had taken a severer view of the subject, she was mortified even amidst
her fears and embarrassment at his levity. Just as she had become
convinced that his jealousy had made her over-conscious, his apparent
good-humored indifference gave that over-consciousness a guilty
significance. Yet this was lost in her sudden alarm as her companion,
looking up, uttered an exclamation, and placed his hand upon his
revolver. With a sinking conviction that the climax had come, Teresa
turned her eyes. From the dim aisles beyond, Low was approaching. The
catastrophe seemed complete.

She had barely time to utter an imploring whisper: "In the name of God,
not a word to him." But a change had already come over her companion. It
was no longer a parley with a foolish woman; he had to deal with a man
like himself. As Low's dark face and picturesque figure came nearer, Mr.
Curson's proposed method of dealing with him was made audible.