Cross your wrists, _senor_." He had lost his temper, no longer deeming this a joke.
"You damn vixen," he growled savagely.

"This play will soon be done; do you know who I am ?" "The Senor Pasqual Mendez, but that means nothing," she answered.
"This revolver will kill you as surely as any one else.

Do what I say then, and talk no more--cross your wrists behind." He did so, and Cavendish strapped the stout belt about them, winding it in and out until he had sure purchase.

He drew it so tightly the fellow winced.
"It hurts, _senor_," she said, satisfied.

"Well, to hurt you a little is better than what you planned for me.