"But, my dear madam," began Poindexter, "even if this could be done--"

"Don't tell me 'if it could'--it MUST be done. Do you think I could
sleep under this roof, propped up by the timbers of that ruined tienda?
Do you think I could wear those diamonds again, while that termagant
shop-woman can say that her money bought them? No. If you are my
husband's friend you will do this--for--for his sake." She stopped,
locked and interlocked her cold fingers before her, and said, hesitating
and mechanically, "You meant well, Captain Poindexter, in bringing me
here, I know! You must not think that I blame you for it, or for the
miserable result of it that you have just witnessed. But if I have
gained anything by it, for God's sake let me reap it quickly, that I may
give it to these people and go! I have a friend who can aid me to get to
my husband or to my home in Kentucky, where Spencer will yet find me,
I know. I want nothing more." She stopped again. With another woman
the pause would have been one of tears. But she kept her head above the
flood that filled her heart, and the clear eyes fixed upon Poindexter,
albeit pained, were undimmed.

"But this would require time," said Poindexter, with a smile of
compassionate explanation; "you could not sell now, nobody would buy.
You are safe to hold this property while you are in actual possession,
but you are not strong enough to guarantee it to another. There may
still be litigation; your husband has other creditors than these people
you have talked with. But while nobody could oust you--the wife who
would have the sympathies of judge and jury--it might be a different
case with any one who derived title from you. Any purchaser would know
that you could not sell, or if you did, it would be at a ridiculous
sacrifice."