When the man came in, Walthew was sitting carelessly in a chair, as if nothing unusual had been going on. His right hand, however, was gripping the pistol in his jacket pocket.
"I'll wait here for five minutes to give him a start. Seems to me that would be safer," he said when the orderly had left them.
He was relieved when he thought he could get up, for the strain had been heavy, and he was feeling rather limp, but he walked steadily to the door and did not quicken his steps until he reached the stairs. It was with tingling nerves that he came to the outer gate; but the sentries let him pass, and when he had gone a short distance, three or four peons who were hanging about turned and followed him. He was outside in the friendly darkness, but he had still to leave the town.
Walthew waited for the peons, and then turned towardcalle Pinastro, where he had arranged to meet Grahame. He had now three companions whom he thought he could trust, but they were unarmed, except for their knives. Gomez had sent the order for Grahame's release, but if he could rearrest him and seize Walthew without causing a tumult, he would do so. They had only five or six minutes' start. It did not look as if they could get out of the town in time, and Walthew felt fiercely impatient. For all that, he stopped at the corner of a street when one of the others touched him.
There was a lighted café near by, and a girl stood on the pavement near its open front. She was dressed very plainly in white, with a dark shawl fastened round her head, like a peasant girl, but he felt a sudden thrill as she turned toward him. Although he could not see her very well, he knew it was Blanca. When he cautiously crossed the street she drew him back into the shadow, but he saw her look of relief.
"You have succeeded!" she said softly. "Where is Mr. Grahame?"
"I am to meet him at Ramon Silva's."
"You cannot go this way; there are tworuralesfarther on. But it would be dangerous to turn back now."
She put her hand on his arm, as if to detain him while she considered what to do, and Walthew looked about, knowing that he could trust her knowledge of the town. The street was narrow and dark except where the light from the café shone across it. A few citizens sat round the small tables, and several shadowy figures loitered in the gloom outside. Walthew thought they had come with the girl, but there was nothing in their attitude to suggest that they had any particular business in the neighborhood, and his own followers had stopped at the corner.
Suddenly a clatter of hoofs broke out. Some one was riding fast toward them. Walthew felt Blanca's hand tighten warningly on his arm as she drew back a pace or two. The sound grew louder; there was a hoarse shout like a sentry's challenge, and an answer which Walthew imagined satisfied theruraleson guard; and then a mounted man rode into the stream of light.
The mule was foul with sweat and dust, and a trickle of blood ran down its shoulder; the rider's face was pale and set. Walthew's eyes rested on him for only a second, but he knew the fellow was English or American. There was an angry cry in the background, and a stealthy figure, outlined against a blank, white wall, crossed the street. The mounted man was obviously the President's messenger; but Walthew, having seen his grim, tired look, and the way he drove the worn-out mule furiously down the street, felt a touch of half-admiring sympathy. After all, the fellow was white, and was gallantly doing what he had undertaken.
A moment more and Walthew saw something glisten in the hand of the stealthy figure that seemed ready to spring. He was only a yard away and, acting on impulse, he stumbled as if by accident and fell against the man. The knife dropped with a jingle, and the messenger dashed past, throwing Walthew a quick glance as he went.
An angry murmur broke out, and several of the loiterers closed in on Walthew, while men left the café to see what was going on, and there were quick footsteps farther off in the gloom. Remembering the need for haste and that Grahame might be in danger, Walthew half regretted his rashness, but as he wondered what to do Blanca ran to his side.
"Theruralesare coming!" she shouted; and the men about them vanished as she led him away.
They turned a corner into a lane between dark houses.
"Why did you interfere?" she asked breathlessly.
"I don't know. Felt I had to," Walthew answered with some embarrassment.
"But you know who he is!"
"Yes; he's carrying the despatches. Still, he looked played out and he had got through."
"Through your friends!"
"I suppose so. It didn't seem to make much difference. Guess I've been foolish."
"You were generous, but generosity of that kind must be paid for," Blanca answered in a hard tone. "It will cost our people something, and, now thatGomez has got his orders, I don't know that we can leave the town."
"Grahame and I must find a way. But you'd be safer without us. I can't let you run into needless danger."
Blanca laughed.
"Do you think I would leave you to get into fresh difficulties? With a temperament like yours, you're not to be trusted alone."
"I handled Gomez pretty well," Walthew boasted.
"And you still wear the bandage he saw you with! Is it safe to take it off?"
"I'd forgotten it," he admitted.
He threw the bandage into the lane with some annoyance, for the girl seemed amused, but she made no remark until they reached a quiet street.
"Well," she said, "perhaps I can excuse you to the others, who haven't deserted us. But we turn down here and you had better go a few yards in front."
Following the directions she gave him, he presently crossed a square and entered a street where a dim light burned. A man stood near it in a careless pose, smoking a cigarette, and Walthew's heart beat fast as he saw him.
"Grahame!" he said; and the next moment he was shaking his comrade's hand.
"Got your note," said Grahame. "Thought I'd better wait here. Silva can't let us have the mules."
Walthew understood his brevity: there was no time for questions and explanations.
Grahame took off his hat as Blanca joined them.
"I must see Silva. Wait in the shadow," she said, and moved quickly away.
The men stood silent. They had much to say, but it would keep, and the means of escaping from the town occupied their minds. The street was deserted and seemed strangely quiet after the girl's footsteps died away, but indistinct cries came across the flat roofs as if something were happening. Walthew looked about sharply in tense impatience, but could see nothing, and Blanca did not return. At last, however, she came silently toward them through the gloom.
"It is impossible for Silva to give us the mules," she said. "The Government has seized all he has, and tworuralesguard the stable."
"Then we must try to get away on foot," Grahame replied. "Would you be safer, señorita, if you got some of your friends to hide you?"
"No," she said; "I must take my father some news I have picked up, and Gomez will leave no place unsearched when he learns that I have been here. I think we shall be out of danger if we can reach a house I know."
They went down the street, quickly but silently, and as they turned the corner a man sprang out from the gloom beside a wall and immediately afterward disappeared. A few moments later they heard a whistle, and Blanca led the men into a narrow lane.
"It is off our way, and we must run!" she said.
She shook off Walthew when he tried to take her arm; and they had gone some distance before they heard footsteps behind them. The pursuers did not seem to gain much ground, but when they slipped round a corner somebody shouted, and the girl sped across the square they had entered. A little farther on, they heard a heavier tread on the uneven stones.
"Rurales!" Grahame whispered.
Blanca turned off quickly and led them through an archway into a street where there was a café, which, to Walthew's surprise, she made for. The pursuers had not come out from the archway yet, and the party, falling into a slower pace before they reached the café, went in and sat down calmly at one of the tables. As usual, the front of the café was open to the pavement, separated from it by only a row of pillars. A few men sat inside and glanced curiously at the newcomers, but they made no remark.
"A bottle of vermouth, as soon as you can!" Grahame said to the landlord.
The fellow gave him a quick glance, and then his eyes rested for a moment on the girl; but he did not delay, and was coming back with some glasses when several barefooted men and two others in uniform ran down the street. Grahame had taken up a newspaper, but he watched them over it without turning his head; Walthew pushed his chair back carelessly into the shadow; and Blanca played with a gaudy fan. The men did not look into the café, but the landlord, after quietly filling the glasses, put down the bottle with a meaning smile.
"They may come back," he said, and moved away.
Walthew was about to get up, but Blanca coquettishly tapped him with her fan and, taking the hint, he sat still; they must drink some of the vermouth before they left. He drained his glass, and insisted on refilling the girl's. Blanca protested laughingly, but Grahame saw that she held her fan so that it hid her face from the other customers. She was playing her part well. Still, he thought that Walthew, knowingless of Spanish conventions, did not understand how daring she was. When Grahame's eyes rested on her she blushed and quickly turned her head.
"It seems you have a number of supporters in the town," he remarked in a low voice.
"Yes," she said; "you are thinking of the landlord's hint. We hope at least half the people are on our side.... But we can venture out in a minute or two."
She raised her glass, smiling at Walthew, and then hummed a song until she got up and, standing in front of a dirty mirror, began to arrange the black mantilla that covered her head. Her pose and movements were marked by rakish coquetry, and Grahame saw they had deceived the loungers; but he noticed with a touch of dry amusement that Walthew looked puzzled and not quite pleased.
"Now, señores," she said loudly in Castilian, "you have had wine enough and must not keep me waiting."
She went out in front of them, flaunting her fan, but when they reached the pavement her manner changed, and her voice was strained as she whispered:
"Follow me close, but quickly! There is no time to lose!"
They were not molested as they crossed the town, but when they neared its outskirts, Blanca left the road that led to the open country and plunged into a network of narrow streets. At last she stopped in front of a large but dilapidated looking house and, knocking twice, waited a few moments until her summons was answered. There was no light inside, and she exchanged a word with a half-seen person at the door before the party was admitted. The door was shut and bolted, and they were led into an inner roomwhere a small lamp burned, and a woman with a frightened face confronted them.
"The road is stopped, and you must go at once before the house is searched!" she said excitedly.
"Where are the others?" Blanca asked.
"They lost you and have gone on. You know where they will wait."
Blanca nodded and beckoned her companions; and they followed her and the woman to a window at the back. Grahame tactfully sprang out first and was relieved to find himself outside the town, with a grove of trees that promised safe concealment not far ahead. He made his way toward them without looking round. Walthew got out next, but as soon as he reached the ground he turned and held up his arms to Blanca, who was sitting on the ledge. As she sprang down he caught her, and holding her fast kissed her ardently. His feeling of triumph banished all thought of their danger when he found that she did not resist. Her eyes shone a deep, mystic blue, and she smiled as she slipped her arm round his neck for a moment before he set her down.
Without speaking, they hurried on after Grahame.
"We have about a mile to go," Blanca said, when they reached him.
She struck into a path that led them past clumps of trees, rows of neatly planted bushes, and fields of cane. It was a still, dark night on which a sound would carry far, but they heard no pursuit, and the town seemed quiet.
At last a small building loomed up ahead, and Blanca stopped beside it.
"We should find the others here," she whispered."But you wait. It would be better for them to see me first."
They let her go, knowing that she would be easily recognized; but she came back a few moments later.
"There is nobody about. Perhaps they have gone on, because they had news from people in the town, or something may have happened to make them change their plans."
Sitting down outside the building, they began to consider what must be done.
"We must go on without our mules," Blanca said. "I have information that my father must get as soon as possible; but we may not be able to join him until to-morrow night. The road is the nearest way, but now that Gomez has his orders he may have sent out soldiers to stop all travelers. Besides, there areruralesabout."
"Then we'll take to the mountains," said Walthew. He did not mean her to run a risk. "I guess they've disarmed Grahame, and with one pistol among us we couldn't put up much of a fight."
"There's another," Blanca returned quietly. "I might let Mr. Grahame have it, if he is a good shot, but he must give it back to me; and, as time is important, we will take the road."
She silenced Walthew's objections and they set off, striking into a broad track some distance farther on. For a time, it wound, deep with dust that clung about their feet heavy with the dew, across a belt of cultivated land where indistinct, orderly rows of coffee bushes ran back from its edge. Then it plunged into thick forest, where the soil was soft and the darkness impenetrable, and they stumbled along blindly, trying to feel their way. For all that, Grahame was conscious of keen satisfaction as he breathed the warm, night air. Heavy as it was, it seemed strangely invigorating after the foul atmosphere of thecarcelwhere he had been imprisoned, and it was something to walk at large again. Walthew, however, felt anxious and limp. He had been highly strung for several hours, and he held himself responsible for the safety of the girl he loved. Listening for sounds of pursuit, he tried to pierce the darkness in front, and started when a leaf rustled or some animal moved stealthily through the forest. He thought his footsteps rang down the branch-arched track alarmingly loud.
They came out into barren, rolling country, where clumps of cactus and euphorbia grew in fantastic shapes. The track led upward, and it was obvious that Blanca was getting tired. Unless they are the wives of peons, Spanish-American women do not lead an active life and, as a rule, limit their walks to an evening stroll in the plaza.
For a while Blanca leaned on Walthew's arm, and he winced as he felt her limping movements, but at last she stopped.
"I cannot go much farther, but there is a house near here," she said. "We can rest when we reach it."
The house proved to be empty and in some disorder, suggesting that its occupants had hurriedly fled, but on searching it with a light they found some food, a little charcoal, and an iron cooking pot. Blanca and Walthew had made a long journey after their lastmeal and Grahame had eaten nothing since his very plain breakfast at ten o'clock.
Following the girl's instructions, he lighted the charcoal and set the pot near the door while she prepared the food, but Walthew lay down in the dust outside. He was physically tired, and now, when he imagined they were comparatively safe, he felt very slack and his mind was dull. For all that, he lay where he could see the road, and only moved his eyes from it when he glanced into the small adobe building. The charcoal made a faint red glow that forced up the face of the stooping girl out of the darkness and touched her skin with a coppery gleam. Grahame knelt beside her, a dark, vaguely outlined figure, fanning the fire, and Walthew felt half jealous that he should help.
Then he found himself getting drowsy, and, lighting a cigarette, he fixed his eyes resolutely on the road. All was very quiet, and there was not a movement anywhere.
But Blanca was not out of danger yet.
Walthew was almost dozing, when he was startled by a sound that came out of the darkness. It was some distance off, but it had a regular beat in it, and when it grew louder he could not doubt that some one was riding fast up the road.
"Move the fire back—there's somebody coming!" he called quickly. "Blanca, will you give Grahame your pistol?"
He used her name for the first time, and it thrilled him, but he had other things to think about. The faint glow of the charcoal vanished, and Grahame came out and stood listening.
"Stay where you are and guard the door!" he said. "I'll drop behind that bush, and then if the fellow gets down we'll have him between us."
Throwing away a cigarette he was smoking, he vanished into the gloom, and Walthew lay still with his heart beating fast. The drumming of hoofs grew slower as the rider climbed the hill before the house, but Walthew could not see him until he dismounted and came up the path, leading his mule. It was some comfort to realize that they had only one man to deal with, but if he was a spy of the President's, he must not get away. Walthew, lying at full length, quicklyworked his elbow into the dust to steady his pistol hand.
When the stranger was three or four yards away he stopped and looped the bridle round his arm. Then he put his hand into his pocket, and Walthew, with his nerves a-tingle, supposed that the man was searching for a match. In another moment he might have to shoot, and he held his breath as his finger tightened on the trigger. He heard the match scrape, a tiny flame flickered between the stranger's hands, and Walthew started as he saw his face. It was the man who had carried the President's orders into Rio Frio.
The light spread, falling on Walthew's recumbent figure and sparkling on his pistol, but the messenger did not throw it down as the American had half expected. Instead, he coolly held it up.
"I see you have me covered," he said. "Though it's a surprise to find you here, I'm not going to run away."
Walthew lowered his pistol.
"Very well. Leave your mule and go into the house. Will you tie up the animal, Grahame?"
"So there are two of you!"
The man did as he was told, and Walthew, following him, asked Blanca to get a light.
The girl had found a lamp which she placed on the ground, and the stranger looked at her sharply as she bent over it. Nobody spoke until Grahame came in.
"Are you alone?" he asked the messenger.
"Quite."
"What's your name and business?"
"Carson, agent for the trading firm, Henniker and Gillatly."
"Where were you going and why did you come here?"
Carson turned to Walthew, who had been wondering whether he recognized him.
"I imagine this gentleman knows my business," he said. "He did me a service in Rio Frio which I'm glad to acknowledge. As a matter of fact, I stopped here to look for something to eat; the owner of this house is on the President's side. It's pretty plain, though, that he has cleared out. Taking it all round, I haven't had much luck this trip."
"Who warned you not to call at thehaciendaPerez?" Blanca asked.
"I don't know his name—he stopped me for a moment in the dark. I'm sorry I had to put one of your friends out of action, señorita, but I hadn't much choice, because he struck at me with his knife. For all that, I hope the man's not badly hurt."
"We expect him to recover."
"You seem to know this lady," Walthew broke in.
Carson smiled.
"I haven't had the pleasure of being presented, but I've seen Miss Sarmiento once or twice, and it would be strange if I forgot her."
His easy good-humor disarmed Walthew.
"Did you deliver the President's despatches?" he asked.
"Yes. To tell the truth, I was glad to get rid of them—and I imagine Miss Sarmiento acted wisely in leaving the town. Now, however, I'm naturally curious to know what you mean to do with me."
"Will you give us your word not to tell any of the President's supporters that you have met us?"
"I'll promise with pleasure. I feel that I've done enough in carrying his despatches."
"Very well," said Grahame. "That clears the ground; but we must talk it over together."
"Thanks," Carson said coolly. "I'm not pressed for time—and I notice that you have been cooking. I wonder if I might ask for some supper?"
"All we have is at your service, señor," Blanca answered with Spanish politeness. "But we'd better put out the light."
She extinguished the lamp, and they gathered round the cooking pot, the men sitting on the earth floor with the red glow of the burning charcoal on their faces. It could not be seen many yards away, and Grahame's view commanded the path to the door. Blanca divided the omelette she had made, and afterward gave them some black coffee and a bundle of cigarettes.
"These are Habaneros and should be good," she said. "As they belong to a friend of the President's we need not hesitate about using them."
She sat down beside Walthew, and they smoked in silence for a while. Blanca was studying Carson's face as it was lighted by the glow from the charcoal.
"Why did you help Altiera?" she asked him suddenly.
"Commercial interest. He has given us one or two trading privileges. And he seemed to think I had a pretty good chance of getting through."
"Do you know what his orders to Gomez were?"
Grahame had wondered when she meant to ask this, and had left it to her, feeling that she was more likely to catch the messenger off his guard.
Carson laughed.
"Honestly, I don't know; Altiera isn't the man to take an outsider into his confidence."
"Still, you know something."
"Well," Carson said quietly, "I'm sorry I must refuse to tell you my surmises. No doubt you'll understand my obstinacy."
"Aren't you rash, señor?" Blanca asked in a meaning tone.
"On the whole, I think not. Of course, I'm in your hands, but as I've promised not to give you away, I expect these gentlemen won't take an unfair advantage of me. Then, from what I know about Don Martin, I feel that I can trust his daughter."
Blanca smiled.
"Well," she said, "I suppose we must let you go. You are at liberty to leave us when you wish."
Grahame and Walthew agreed, and Carson shook hands with them.
"It's evident that your only reason for stopping near Rio Frio is that Miss Sarmiento finds it impossible to walk any farther," he remarked. "She's welcome to my mule. Gomez requisitioned it from a man called Silva, who's suspected of sympathizing with your party. I believe I know where to find another animal."
They thanked him and let him go; and soon after he vanished into the darkness, Blanca mounted the mule and they set off again.
Pushing on until dawn, they found a small, desertedhaciendastanding back from the road, and as tall forest grew close up to it, offering a line of retreat, they decided to rest there. The mule looked jaded.Blanca admitted that she could not go much farther, and Walthew was obviously worn out. They could find nothing to eat; but there was some furniture in the house, and Blanca found a place to sleep in one of the rooms, while the men lay down on a rug outside. The sun was now rising above the high cordillera and, wet with the dew as they were, they enjoyed the warmth. A few lizards crept about the wall in front of them, and an archway near by commanded a view of the road. The building was in good order, and had apparently been abandoned on the approach of the President's soldiers.
"These people know what to expect; they must have been ready to light out," Walthew remarked. "I rather liked that fellow Carson, but it's curious he didn't ask us anything about our business."
"He'd take it for granted that we had an active part in the revolution."
"No doubt the señorita's being with us would suggest something of the kind, but he seemed surprised at first," Walthew replied with a thoughtful air. "For all that, I can't quite see——"
"No," said Grahame; "I don't think you altogether understand the situation yet. I suppose you mean to marry Miss Sarmiento?"
"Certainly, if she'll have me," Walthew answered with firmness, though he looked at his comrade as if he expected something more.
Grahame smiled.
"Then you're to be congratulated, because you won't have much trouble in getting your wish."
"What do you mean?" Walthew's tone was sharp, but he remembered an incident during his escape fromthe town. "I'll admit I wasn't quite hopeless, but we were both in danger——"
He broke off, and Grahame regarded him with a friendly laugh.
"You're modest—and you're more ignorant of Spanish customs than I thought. However, I'd better explain, so you'll know how Don Martin will look at it. To begin with, a well-brought-up girl is never permitted to meet a man unless she is suitably escorted by an older member of the family, and you have been wandering about with Miss Sarmiento for two or three days. Now you can understand why Carson was surprised, and I noticed he was uncertain how to address Miss Sarmiento at first. She noticed his hesitation, though you did not."
For some moments Walthew was silent, his brows knitted.
"No, I never thought of it," he admitted. "But we'll say no more about it until I've seen Don Martin. Besides, there's another matter. A fellow who joined us at the lagoon gave me a letter for you. Sorry I forgot it until now, but I had a good deal to think about."
"I don't suppose it's important," Grahame replied, and lighted a cigarette before opening the envelope with an English stamp.
Then his expression changed, and a few moments afterward he let the letter drop and sat very still. The cigarette went out, the hot sun shone upon his uncovered head, and a lizard ran across his leg; but he did not move. He seemed lost in thought. Walthew, watching with puzzled sympathy, waited for him to speak.
"This letter has been a long time on the way," he explained at last. "It probably had to wait at our Havana address, and then Don Martin's people had no opportunity to deliver it."
"But what's the news?" Walthew asked.
Grahame answered with a strained laugh.
"In a sense, it's rather a grim joke. While I've been risking my life for a few dollars' profit on smuggled guns, and practicing the sternest self-denial, it seems I've been the owner of an old Border estate."
"Ah!" said Walthew. "Then Calder Hall now belongs to you?"
"What do you know about Calder Hall?"
"I've known all about it for some time, and I'm very glad. But I understand that you didn't expect to inherit the estate."
"No; it seemed impossible. I won't trouble you with family particulars, but two deaths have occurred in a very short time. The last owner was no older than I am and married, but his only child is a girl, and he was killed while hunting. Although he was my cousin, I've rarely seen him."
He was silent again for some minutes, his mind busy with alluring visions. He had long struggled with poverty, and had wandered about the world engaging in reckless adventures, but he had inherited a love for the old home of his race; and now it was his. But this, while counting for much, was not the main thing. He had been strongly attracted by Evelyn Cliffe, but, recognizing his disadvantages, he had tried hard to hold in check the love for her which grew in spite of him. The obstacles that had bulked so large were now removed. He was free to win herif he could, and it was comforting to remember that in her urgent need she had sent for him. But he had work to finish first.
"I suppose you mean to start home as soon as you can?" Walthew suggested.
"No," Grahame answered quietly, "I'm not going yet. For one thing, we have taken Don Martin's money, and now that he has to meet a crisis we can't leave him in the lurch. Besides, one day at San Lucar, we promised some of the leaders of the movement that we'd see them through."
It was a good reason. Grahame was not the man to do a shabby thing, but Walthew, remembering that Evelyn was with the rebels, thought his comrade had a stronger motive for staying.
"Well," he agreed, "I guess that's so. Anyway, the game can't last much longer; they'll have to use our guns in the next few days."
"Yes; and as we don't know what part we'll have in it, you'd better get some rest. I'll keep watch a while."
Walthew was glad of the opportunity to sleep; and Grahame, moving back into the shadow as the sun got hot, sat still, with his mind busy and his eyes fixed upon the road.
At noon Blanca came out of the house and stood looking down at Walthew with a compassionate gentleness that she did not try to hide. The half-healed cut showed plainly on his forehead, his brown face looked worn, and he lay in an attitude of deep weariness.
"It is a pity to wake him, but we must start," she said, and indicated the scar. "I suppose you can guessthat he has borne something, and he got that wound for you."
"I'm not likely to forget it," Grahame answered quietly.
"No," Blanca said with a curious smile. "You do not make many protestations, you men of the North, but one can trust you."
She stooped and touched Walthew gently.
"It is noon and we must go."
Her voice was quiet, but Walthew seemed to know it in his sleep, for he sprang to his feet with a half-ashamed air.
"I didn't mean to sleep so long," he said, and looked at Blanca anxiously. "Have you rested enough? Are you quite fit to travel?"
Blanca smiled; and when Walthew brought up the mule and helped her to mount she noticed something new in his manner. Hitherto, it had been marked by a certain diffidence, but now this had gone. He was assiduously careful of her, but with a hint of proprietary right. Something had happened since she had last seen him to account for the change. She gave Grahame a searching glance, but his face was impassive.
They set off, Walthew walking beside the mule, but it was to Grahame that the girl spoke as they moved slowly forward in the scorching heat. He thought he understood, and his eyes twinkled with amusement when she was not looking. Blanca suspected him, and she did not mean Walthew to take too much for granted.
It was late when Walthew led Blanca's mule through the rebel camp to the table under a tree where Don Martin sat writing. There was a half moon in the sky, and as they passed between the rows of motionless, dark figures stretched on the ground, here and there an upturned face caught the light and shone a livid white. In places a sentry's form was silhouetted, vague and black, against the sky, but except for this all was wrapped in puzzling shadow, and silence brooded over the camp.
One of Don Martin's staff sat beside the table, smoking a cigarette, another lay asleep near by, but a small lamp burned steadily near the leader's hand, lighting up his grave face against the gloom. He put down his pen and waited when Walthew stopped the mule and helped the girl to dismount.
"I have had the honor of escorting the señorita from Rio Frio, where with her help I got my partner out of thecarcel," he said.
"Yes," Don Martin returned in a quiet voice, "I have heard something of this. I am told that you met my daughter at thehaciendaPerez. Was it by accident?"
Walthew, remembering Grahame's remarks on thesubject, felt embarrassed, for the steadiness of Don Martin's glance was significant.
"Certainly!" he answered. "I had never heard of thehaciendabefore I reached it. For all that, I would not have kept away if I had known the señorita was there."
"One must acknowledge your frankness," Don Martin remarked. "Well, what happened afterward?"
Walthew looked at Blanca, but she seemed to be smiling as she unfolded her fan, and he began a brief account of their adventures.
"And your comrade is with you?" asked Don Martin. "I was told of his escape, but you have been some time on the way. Our friends who lost you in Rio Frio arrived this morning."
Blanca laughed.
"I cannot walk like a peon," she explained.
"But you came on a mule!"
"We had gone some distance when Carson, the trader, lent it to us."
Walthew had not mentioned their meeting with the President's messenger, and Don Martin looked surprised.
"Carson!" he exclaimed. "If I did not believe Mr. Grahame was a man of honor, I should not know what to think."
"Mr. Walthew also is a man of honor," Blanca retorted in a meaning tone. "But I have news which you must hear at once."
Don Martin turned to Walthew.
"You will give me a few minutes; then I will see you again."
Taking this as a dismissal, Walthew went back towhere Grahame was waiting and smoked a cigarette with him. Soon after he had finished it, a drowsy soldier beckoned him and he returned to Sarmiento. When he reached the table Blanca had gone.
"Señor," he said, "I have a favor to ask; but the accident that I was thrown into Miss Sarmiento's company at thehaciendaand Rio Frio has nothing to do with it. You must understand that. I want your consent to my marriage to your daughter."
"Ah!" said Don Martin. "You have learned that she is willing?"
Walthew felt half guilty when he thought of the kiss beneath the window-sill, but he looked at Don Martin steadily.
"I thought it better to follow your customs," he explained. "Blanca does not know I meant to ask you. But I want to say that my mind has been made up for some time. It was for her sake that I determined to stay on the coast and give you all the help I could."
There was a gleam of amusement in Don Martin's eyes.
"Then my daughter gained us a useful ally. But, so far, you have spoken for yourself. What about your parents? Blanca Sarmiento is not an American."
Walthew hesitated for a moment.
"They may feel some surprise, but I believe it will vanish when they have seen her; and I choose my wife to please myself. I think I have means enough to make my way without any help, though I haven't a great deal."
"How much?"
Sarmiento nodded when Walthew told him.
"It is enough; you would be thought a rich man inthis country. Still, I would prefer to have your father's consent. It is our custom that a marriage should be arranged with the approval of both families."
"But you are a progressive and don't count much on customs. I understand that you mean to cut out all those that stop your people from going ahead."
"It is true to some extent," Don Martin admitted with a smile. "For all that, one may believe in progress in the abstract, and yet hesitate about making risky experiments that touch one's own family. However, if Blanca is willing, I can trust her to you."
"I'll try to deserve your confidence," Walthew answered, and added with a naïvely thoughtful air: "My people will come round; the only thing they'll insist on is that I enter the family business, and that's going to be easier than I thought."
"Why did you refuse in the beginning?"
"It's rather hard to explain. I wanted to get into touch with realities, to learn what I was good for and find my proper level."
Sarmiento made a sign of comprehension.
"And in searching for what you call realities, you have found yourself."
Walthew recognized the truth of this. It was not that in facing danger and hardship he had gained steadiness and self-control, because he had never lacked courage, but he had acquired a clearer conception of essential things. He would no longer be content to accept thoughtlessly the conventional view. His comrade had taught him much by his coolness in time of strain and his stubborn tenacity when things went wrong. It was not for nothing that Grahamehad hawk-like eyes: he had the gift of seeing what must be done. But, after all, it was from hardship itself that Walthew had learned most, and in the light of that knowledge he determined to go home. The work he was best fitted for was waiting in the smoky, industrial town; it was not the task he had longed for, but it was his, and he would be content now.
Don Martin smiled.
"You may try to persuade Blanca to go with you to your country, if you wish. I want a talk with your comrade now. Will you send him to me?"
Walthew left him with a light heart, and shortly afterward Grahame joined Don Martin.
"Señor," said the leader, "you have kept your agreement with us faithfully, and I do not know that we have any further claim, but I understand that you do not mean to leave us yet."
"No," Grahame replied quietly; "I shall see you through."
"Good! Another body of our friends is gathering at a village to which I will send you with a guide. They are well armed and determined. I offer you command."
"Where is the señorita Cliffe?" Grahame wanted to know.
"At ahaciendatwo or three hours' ride back. She is in good hands, and at daybreak my daughter leaves to join her."
Grahame was sensible of keen disappointment.
"When do you wish me to start?" he asked.
"As soon as possible; but you'd better take an hour's rest."
"I'm ready now if you will give me my orders."
When, a few minutes later, he rode away with the guide, Walthew and Blanca left the camp and followed a path that led through a field of rustling sugar-cane.
"We must not go far," Blanca protested. "This is quite against my people's idea of what is correct."
"It's a sign of the change you're going to make for me. You might have been something like a princess here, and you'll be the wife of a plain American citizen, instead."
"I never wanted to be a princess," she said; "and certainly not a conspirator. All I really hoped for was one faithful subject."
"You have one whose loyalty won't change. But you mustn't expect too much, because I'm giving up my adventurous career and turning business man. Men like Bolivar and the other fellow you wanted me to copy aren't born every day—and I'm not sure we'd appreciate them if they were."
Blanca laughed.
"You are a pessimist, but I will tell you a secret. It needs courage to be the wife of a great soldier and I am not brave enough." Her voice fell to a low, caressing note. "One's heart shrinks from sending the man one loves into danger."
Walthew stopped in the path and faced the girl. She was smiling. The half-moon, now high overhead, shed its beams down in a weird light that lay over everything like a mantle of blue silver. All about them the tall cane whispered in the wind.
Walthew opened his arms, and Blanca cuddled to him.
"It is so wonderful!" he breathed, after the firstlong kiss. "So wonderful that you are really going back to the States with me!"
"You are not going back the same," she smiled up at him; and he stooped and kissed the smile.
"——You have seen the vision," she finished; "romance has touched you."
"It was you who opened my eyes. Perhaps now they are dazzled; but we will never let the vision quite fade. Romance shall spread her bright wings above the home I'm going to build you on the river bluff——"
Again he found her mouth, and drank deep.
The silence was broken by a rattle of leather and a jingle of steel that startled them, and as they turned quickly and walked up the path a dark figure rose out of the gloom ahead and stood before them, sinister and threatening. When Walthew had answered the sentry's challenge, Blanca shivered.
"I had forgotten for a few minutes," she said. "Rio Frio is not taken yet, and you must fight for us."
"For two or three days, if all goes well. It can't be a long struggle. Rio Frio is bound to fall."
Blanca clung closer to him.
"I cannot keep you," she said; "but how I wish the days were over! There is nothing of the princess in me; I am only an anxious girl."
Day was breaking when Cliffe saw Rio Frio loom out above low-lying mist. There was no perceptible light in the sky, but the scattered clumps of trees were growing blacker and more distinct, and the town began to stand out against a dusky background. It had an unsubstantial look, as if it might suddenly fade away, and Cliffe felt that he was doing something fantastic and unreal as he watched the blurred forms of his companions move on. To some extent, want of sleep and weariness accounted for this, because he had marched all night, but the silence with which the rebels advanced helped the illusion. A number of them were barefooted and the raw-hide sandals of the others made no sound in the thick dust.
Cliffe marched near the head of the straggling battalion, a cartridge-belt round his waist and a rifle on his shoulder. His light clothes were damp and stained with soil. His costly Panama hat hung, crumpled and shapeless, about his head, and he did not differ much in external appearance from the men around him. They were a picturesque, undisciplined band, but Cliffe knew that they meant business. He recognized that there was something humorous about his marching with them. He belonged to the orderly cities,where he had been treated as a man of importance, but now he was swayed by primitive impulses and had cast off the habits of civilization.
The rebel leader had promised to make inquiries about Evelyn, but had learned nothing. Cliffe imagined that the man, having other things to think about, had not been very diligent. He held Gomez accountable for the distress he felt. The rogue had cheated him and stolen his daughter. Cliffe sternly determined that he should pay for it. Gomez, however, was in Rio Frio and, since he could not be reached by other means, Cliffe was ready to fight his way into the town. The curious thing was that instead of finding the prospect disagreeable he was conscious of a certain fierce satisfaction. The commander of the detachment had treated him well, but his limited knowledge of Castilian had made it necessary that he should take his place in the ranks.
The leading files halted, and from their disjointed remarks Cliffe gathered that a picket of the enemy's had been surprised by the scouts. He had heard no shots, but he could imagine the dark-skinned men, many of whom had Indian blood in them, crawling silently through the long grass with unsheathed knives. It was not a pleasant picture; but the road was clear.
The light was growing when they went on, moving faster. The need for haste was obvious. As they were not numerous, they must enter the town while darkness covered their approach, and they were late. Another detachment should have met them, but it had not arrived. On the whole, Cliffe did not think their chances good, but that did not daunt him, and hetrudged on with the rest, the dust rolling like a fog about his head.
After a while the advance split up into two streams of hurrying men, and, going with one body, Cliffe saw the flat-topped houses near ahead. Stumbling among small bushes, and gazing between the shoulders of the men in front, he made out a shadowy opening in the line of buildings. A few minutes later the clatter of sandals rose from slippery stones, there were blank walls about him, and he was in the town. It was hard to believe they had entered unopposed, without a shot being fired, but he supposed the guard had been surprised and overpowered by friends inside.
The backs of the leading files obstructed his view, but now that they were moving down a narrow lane the air throbbed with the sound of their advance. Rifle slings rattled, feet fell with a rapid beat, and now and then an order broke through the jingle of steel. Then a shot rang out and the men began to run, two or three falling out here and there, with the intention, Cliffe supposed, of occupying friendly houses. A little later, the advance guard swung out into a wider street, and a group of men began tearing up the pavement; it had been loosened beforehand, and the stones came up easily. Another group were throwing furniture out of the houses. They worked frantically, though they were fired at, and Cliffe could hear the bullets splash upon the stones.
For the most part, the men were wiry peons, some toiling half naked, but there were a number who looked like prosperous citizens. The light, however, was dim and they were hard to distinguish as they flitted to and fro with their loads or plied the shovel.A barricade was rising fast, but the alarm had spread. Detached shouts and a confused uproar rolled across the town, the call of bugles joined in, and the sharp clang of the rifles grew more frequent. Cliffe could see no smoke, but he imagined that the roofs farther on were occupied by the troops Gomez was no doubt hurrying into action.
The attack had obviously been well timed and arranged with the coöperation of revolutionaries in the town, but while the rebels had gained an entrance, they seemed unable to follow up their success, and it remained to be seen if they could hold their ground until reënforcements arrived. Finding no opportunity for doing anything useful, Cliffe sat down on the pavement and lighted a cigarette. He did not feel the nervousness he had expected, but he was tired and hungry. It was four o'clock on the previous afternoon when he shared the officers' frugal dinner, and he had eaten nothing since. There was no use in speculating about what was likely to happen in the next few hours, but he meant to have a reckoning with Gomez if he came through alive.
Then, as he watched the blurred figures swarming like ants about the barricade, he broke into a dry smile, for the situation had an ironically humorous side. He had thought himself a sober, business man; and now he was helping a horde of frenzied rebels to overthrow the government he had supported with large sums of money. This was a novelty in the way of finance. Moreover, it was strange that he should derive a quiet satisfaction from the touch of the rifle balanced across his knees. He was better used to the scatter-gun, and did not altogether understand thesights, but he was determined to shoot as well as he could.
An opportunity was soon offered him. Some one gave an order, and after some pushing and jostling he squeezed himself between the legs of a table on the top of the barricade. A ragged desperado, who scowled furiously and used what seemed to be violently abusive language, had contested the position with him, and it struck Cliffe as remarkable that he should have taken so much trouble to secure a post where he might get shot. He was there, however, and thought he could make pretty good shooting up to a couple hundred yards.
He had got comfortably settled, with his left elbow braced against a ledge to support the rifle, when a body of men in white uniform appeared at the other end of the street. An officer with sword drawn marched at their head, but they did not seem anxious to press forward, or to be moving in very regular order. The distances were uneven, and some of the men straggled toward the side of the street, where it was darker close to the walls. Cliffe sympathized with them, although he felt steadier than he had thought possible.
A rifle flashed on a roof and others answered from the barricade, but only a thin streak of gray vapor that vanished almost immediately marked the firing. It looked as if the rebels had obtained good powder. After a few moments Cliffe heard a shrill humming close above his head, and there was a crash as a man behind him fell backward. Then he felt his rifle jump and jar his shoulder, though he was not otherwise conscious that he had fired. He must have pulled the trigger by instinct, but he did not try to ascertain the result of his shot. He had not come to that yet.
There was a sharp patter on the front of the barricade and splinters sprang from the table legs. Some one near Cliffe cried out, and the patter went on. Raising his head cautiously, he saw that a number of soldiers were firing from the roofs, while the rest ran steadily up the street. They must be stopped. Dropping his chin upon the stock, he stiffened his arms and held his breath as he squeezed the trigger.
After this, he was too busy to retain a clear impression of what happened. His rifle jumped and jarred until it got hot, his shoulder felt sore, and he found he must pull round his cartridge-belt because the nearer clips were empty. He did not know how the fight was going; the separate advancing figures he gazed at through the notch of the rear sight monopolized his attention, but there was thin smoke and dust about, and he could not see them well. It seemed curious that they had not reached the barricade, and he felt angry with them for keeping him in suspense. Then the firing gradually slackened and died away. Everything seemed strangely quiet, except that men were running back down the street in disorder. The rebels had held their ground; the attack had failed.
After a few moments, he noticed that the sun shone down between the houses and it was getting hot. He felt thirsty, and the glare hurt his eyes, which smarted with the dust and acrid vapor that hung about the spot. All the soldiers, however, had not gone back; several lay in strange, slack attitudes near the front of the barricade, and a rebel who sprang down, perhaps with the object of securing fresh cartridges, suddenlydropped. The rest lay close and left the fallen alone. Then a tall priest in threadbare cassock and clumsy raw-hide shoes came out of a house and with the help of two or three others carried the victims inside. Cliffe heard somebody say that it was Father Agustin.
Soon afterward a man near Cliffe gave him a cigarette, and he smoked it, although his mouth was dry and the tobacco had a bitter taste. The heat was getting worse and his head began to ache, but he was busy wondering what would happen next. Gomez must have more troops than the handful he had sent; the rebels could not hold the position against a strong force, and their supports had not arrived. He hoped Gomez had no machine-guns.
Suddenly the attack recommenced. There were more soldiers, and a rattle of firing that broke out farther up the street suggested that the revolutionaries were being attacked in flank. Some of the men seemed to hesitate and began to look behind them, but they got steadier when an officer called out; and Cliffe understood that a detachment had been sent back to protect their rear. In the meantime, the soldiers in front were coming on. They were slouching, untidy fellows, but their brown faces were savage, and Cliffe knew they meant to get in. It was, however, his business to keep them out, and he fired as fast as he could load. When the barrel got so hot that he could hardly touch it, he paused to cool the open breach and anxiously looked about.
The street seemed filled with white figures, but they had opened out, and in the gaps he could see the dazzling stones over which the hot air danced. Therewas a gleam of bright steel in the sun, and he noticed that the walls were scarred. Raw spots marked where the chipped whitewash had fallen off and the adobe showed through. But there was no time to observe these things; the foremost men were dangerously near. Finding he could now hold his rifle, Cliffe snapped in a cartridge and closed the breach. Then he spent a few tense minutes. The enemy reached the foot of the barrier and climbed up. Rifles flashed from roofs and windows, streaks of flame rippled along the top of the barricade, and one or two of the defenders, perhaps stung by smarting wounds or maddened by excitement, leaped down with clubbed weapons and disappeared. Cliffe kept his place between the table legs and pulled round his cartridge-belt.
The tension could not last. Flesh and blood could not stand it. He understood why the men had leaped down, courting death. He hoped his own nerve was normally good, but if the struggle was not decided soon, he could not answer for himself. He must escape from the strain somehow, if he had to charge the attackers with an empty rifle.
There was a sudden change. The climbing white figures seemed to melt away, and though the rifles still clanged from roofs and windows the firing slackened along the barricade. The troops were going back, running not retiring, and trying to break into houses from which men with rude weapons thrust them out. It looked as if the inhabitants were all insurgents now.
Soon the priest reappeared, and Cliffe left his post and sat down where there was a strip of shade. He had helped to beat off two attacks, but he was doubtful about the third. While he rested, a fat, swarthywoman brought him a cup ofcaña, and he was surprised when he saw how much of the fiery spirit he had drunk. The woman smiled, and went on to the next man with the cup.
Cliffe wondered how long he had been fighting, for he found his watch had stopped; but the sun was not high yet. After all, the reënforcements he had begun to despair of might arrive in time. While he comforted himself with this reflection, some of the other men dug a trench behind the barricade, and citizens, loading the earth into baskets, carried it off. Cliffe did not know what this was for, but he supposed the baskets would be used to strengthen defenses somewhere else. It was a long time since he had handled a spade, but if they needed his help he could dig. Pulling himself up with an effort, he took a tool from a breathless man and set to work.
After a time a citizen appeared with a bundle of papers and a white flag. An officer signed him to come forward, and taking the papers from him threw them among the men. Cliffe got one, and finding a man who spoke a little English, asked him what the notice meant. The man said it was a proclamation by Gomez, stating that, as the people had serious ground for dissatisfaction with the President's administration and were determined to end it, he must accede to the wish of the leading citizens, who had urged him to form a provisional government. He promised a general amnesty for past offenses and the prompt redress of all grievances.
"So the dog turns on his master!" the translator remarked with bitter scorn. "Altiera was a tyrant, but this rogue would be worse!"
The insurgent leader, standing on top of the barricade, read the proclamation in a loud, ironical voice, and when he tore it up with a dramatic gesture, the roar of mocking laughter that rang down the street showed what all who heard it thought of Gomez's claim. Then people ran out of the houses and pelted the messenger with stones as he hurriedly retired, until a few shots from a roof cleared the street.
"The dog has bought the soldiers! Altiera should have been his own paymaster," the man whom Cliffe had questioned remarked.
For the next half hour everything was quiet, but Cliffe felt uneasy. One could not tell what Gomez was doing, but it was plain that he must make a resolute attempt to crush the rebels before he turned his forces against the President. He must have felt reasonably sure of his ground when he made his last daring move. As his terms had been scornfully rejected, the country would soon be devastated by three hostile factions, which would make Evelyn's danger very grave. Cliffe forgot that he was thirsty and there was a pain in his left side brought on by want of food. If help did not come by sunset, his friends would be overwhelmed by numbers when it was too dark to shoot straight.
Then he saw that they were threatened by a more urgent danger. The end of the street opened into the plaza, which had been deserted. The houses on its opposite side were shuttered, and the sun burned down into the dazzling square, except for a strip of shadow beneath one white wall. Now, however, a body of men appeared, carrying something across the uneven pavement. When they stopped and began to put theseparate parts together, Cliffe saw that it was a machine-gun. He wondered why Gomez had not made use of it earlier, unless, perhaps, it had formed the main defense of thepresidio.
The barrel, thickened by its water jacket, gleamed ominously in front of the steel shield as the men got the gun into position; but it was unthinkable that they should be left to do so undisturbed, and Cliffe scrambled back to his post when an order rang out. He felt that he hated the venomous machine, which had perhaps been bought with his money. Steadying his rifle, he fired as fast as he could.
Though the smoke was thin, it hung about the rebels' position, making it hard to see, and Cliffe feared their shots were going wide, but after a few moments the barricade trembled, and there was a curious, whirring sound above his head. Dust and splinters of stone were flung up, and large flakes fell from the neighboring walls. All this seemed to happen at once, before he was conscious of a measured thudding like a big hammer falling very fast which drowned the reports of the rifles and dominated everything. The flimsy defenses were pierced. Gaps began to open here and there, and men dropped back into the trench. Then a fierce yell rang across the city, and although Cliffe heard no order the rebel fire slackened. Peering through the vapor, he saw the soldiers were frantically dragging the gun into a new position; the shield no longer hid the men at the breach, but Cliffe did not shoot. He felt paralyzed as he watched to see what was happening.
The hammering began again, and flashes that lookedpale in the sunshine leapt about the muzzle of the gun. Soldiers lying down behind it were using their rifles, and another detachment hurriedly came up. Cliffe's view of the plaza was limited. He could not see one side of it, where an attack was evidently being made, but presently a mob of running men swept into sight. A few dropped upon the pavement and began to fire, but the main body ran straight for the gun, and he noticed with a thrill that they were led by a light-skinned man. Some of them fell, but the rest went on, and the rebels behind the barricade began to shout. The eagerly expected reënforcements had arrived.
The man with the fair skin was the first to reach the gun. Cliffe saw his pistol flash; but the struggle did not last. Gomez's men fell back and the others swung round the gun. Then, as flame blazed from its muzzle, a triumphant yell rose from the barricade, and Cliffe, springing up on the table, waved his hat and shouted with the rest. Grahame, with his handful of peons, had saved the day.
In a few seconds Cliffe felt dizzy. His head was unsteady, his knees seemed weak, and as he tried to get down he lost his balance. Falling from the top of the barricade, he plunged heavily into the trench, where his senses left him.
It was some time afterward when he came to himself, and, looking round in a half-dazed manner, wondered where he was. The big room in which he lay was shadowy and cool, and he did not feel much the worse except that his head ached and his eyes were dazzled. A tumult seemed to be going on outside, but the room was quiet, and a girl in a white dress satnear by. He thought he ought to know her, although he could not see her face until she heard him move and came toward him.
"Evelyn!" he gasped.
"Yes," she answered, smiling. "How do you feel?"
"Dizzy," said Cliffe. "But this is Rio Frio, isn't it? How did you get here?"
"You mustn't talk," she said firmly, and he saw that she had a glass in her hand. "Drink this and go to sleep again."
Cliffe did not mean to go to sleep, although he drained the glass because he was thirsty. There was much he wanted to know; but he found it difficult to talk, and Evelyn would not answer. After a futile effort to shake it off, he succumbed to the drowsiness that was overpowering him.