Free Suzanna by Harry Sinclair Drago

wrathfully.
    Suzanna recoiled at sound of her name. Her hand went to her mouth as she realized that she was the cause of this scene.
    â€œI thought you would be pleased at what I intend,” Don Fernando exclaimed. “You have grown up together; I know your feeling for the girl, and I am only sorry that your present interest in her is misplaced. You should know that neither your mother nor I would do aught to hurt her. Men call me stern, but, praise God, not unjust. Remember this, my boy,—you are the descendant of kings! Suzanne is a peon. It is part of your legacy that you guide the weaker. You cannot temper wisdom with sentiment. Suzanna goes south by next train to San Luis Bautista!”
    In fitting answer to this outburst came a wild cry. Timoteo had caught sight of a stuffed eagle reposing upon a stand in a corner of the room, and its life-like appearance must have fooled the game-cock into believing that here at last was the cowardly rooster.
    Doña Luz gasped with astonishment as a feathered fury leaped from beneath the table and landed upon the eagle’s back. Alvarez was on his feet, his chair tipping over in back of him as he struggled to get free of it.
    Ramon grinned as he recognized Timoteo. Don Fernando wheeled upon seeing his son smile, and found himself looking into Suzanna’s wet eyes.
    The worthy man’s eyes snapped as he beheld the girl. Doña Luz gasped as she saw her husband’s face grow red as he fought for speech.
    â€œLet me speak to the girl,” she begged.
    For once Don Fernando was deaf to her entreaties. Suzanna’s nervousness but added to her guilt in her master’s eyes. He was convinced that she had stolen into the room to overhear what was being said.
    Suzanna edged toward the door as Don Fernando glowered at her.
    â€œStop!” he cried. “Stand where you are until you have explained your presence in this room.”
    Dumbly, Suzanna bent her knee to him, and whispered “yes.”
    â€œWhat is the meaning of this intrusion?” the mighty owner of the Rancho de Gutierrez roared. “Have you been eavesdropping?”
    Miguel had been drawn by the excitement and now stood in the doorway beside poor Suzanna. She saw him dimly through her tears as she choked back a sob and replied to her master.
    â€œNo, Don Fernando,” she said brokenly. “I was only trying to prove to—to this young gentleman—that a mongrel cannot compete with a thoroughbred.”

CHAPTER IX
A STRANGER IS MADE WELCOME
    W HERE El Camino Real cut across a broad expanse of fertile valley land, a most striking figure rode. His pigtail proclaimed him a toreador by profession. Even seen at a distance, the man gave evidence of possessing unusual bodily strength. With becoming grace, he sat upon his horse, a beautiful, coal-black animal. He was slender, and his colorful clothes but added to the dare-devil air which the reckless tilt of his mouth prophesied.
    The hilts of a pair of rapiers protruded from his saddle bags; behind him swung his guitar. Speed seemed to be a matter of no concern to him, for he repeatedly pulled his horse to a walk. The morning was still young, and the air keen with earthy smells.
    The stranger cast a speculative eye at the fields which skirted the road. That the prospect pleased him was not to be doubted for he smiled from time to time and pursed his lips to whistle a bold lay. And yet, for all his care-free manner, the man seemed out of key with these rural surroundings. Indeed, he had but recently quitted Mexico City where his prowess had won him some little fame.
    He awakened from his dreaming and ceased whistling as he made a turn in the road and saw an elderly friar advancing in his direction. Halting his horse, he waited for the priest to come up to him.
    The rotund friar nodded pleasantly, and the stranger, uncovering his head humbly, addressed the Franciscan. “Good morning, good padre,” he murmured in tones