"Ah, señora!" lamented Valencia, "weep like a woman over sorrows. It is a better way than to mock."
"God knows it is not for me to mock!" breathed the soft voice bitterly. "And if the señor will lend you his aid, I will again be in his debt."
Without further words Kit approached, and Valencia drew the cover from the shoulder and indicated where the ball could be felt.
"I cannot hold the shoulder and press the flesh there without making much pain, too much," stated Valencia, "but it must come out, or there will be trouble."
"Sure there will," asserted Kit, "and if you or Tula will hold the arm, and Doña Jocasta will pardon me----"
He took the white shoulder in his two hands and gently traced the direction of the bullet. It had struck in the back and slanted along the shoulder blade. It was evidently fired from a distance and little force left. Marto had been much nearer the pursuer, and his was a clean cut wound through the upper arm.
The girl turned chalky white as he began slowly to press the bullet backward along its trail, but she uttered no sound, only a deep intake of breath that was half a sob, and the cold moisture of sickening pain stood in beads on her face.
All of the little barriers with a stranger were forgotten, and the shielding scarf fell away from her face and bosom, and even with the shadowed emerald eyes closed, Kit Rhodes thought her the most perfect thing in beauty he had ever seen.
He hated himself for the pain he was forcing on her as he steadily followed the bullet upward and upward until it lay in his hand.
She did not faint, as he feared she might, but fell back in the chair, while Valencia busied herself with the ointment and bandage, and Tula, at a word from Kit, poured her a cup of wine.
"Drink," he said, "if only a little, señora. Your strength has served you well, but it needs help now."
She swallowed a little of the wine, and drew the scarf about her, and after a little opened her eyes and looked at him. He smiled at her approvingly, and offered her the bullet.
"It may be you will want it to go on some shrine to a patron saint, señora," he suggested, but she did not take it, only looked at him steadily with those wonderful eyes, green with black lashes, shining out of her marble Madonna-like face.