"And they were sober when they did it?"

"I ain't been lookin' arter their morals or their personal habits," replied Stubbs, with some disgust. "As fer their turnin' yeller—mos' men are yeller until they are afraid not ter be."

"I don't believe it. I don't believe it,—not Americans. And that's one thing I insisted upon,—they are all Americans?"

"Every mother's son of 'em swore they was. Not bein' present at their birth——"

"Well, we'll look 'em over to-morrow and I'll have a talk with them. I'm going to put it up to them squarely—good pay for good fighters. By the Lord, Stubbs, I can't realize yet that we're actually on the way. Think of it,—in less than a month we'll be at it!"

The dinner would have done credit to the Waldorf.

It was towards its end that Togo, the Japanese steward, came in with a silver-topped bottle in a pail of ice. He filled the three glasses with the flourish of a man who has put a period to the end of a successful composition. Danbury arose. "Gentlemen," he said, raising his glass, "I have a toast to propose: to Her health and Her throne."

The two men rose, Wilson mystified, and silently drained their glasses. Then there was the tinkle of shivered glass as Danbury, after the manner of the English in drinking to their Queen, hurled the fragile crystal to the floor. Shortly after this Stubbs left the two men to go below and look after his charges. Danbury brought out a bottle of Scotch and a siphon of soda and, lighting his brierwood pipe, settled back comfortably on the bunk with his head bolstered up with pillows.

"Now," he said, "I'd like to know just as much of your story as you want to tell—just as much as you feel like telling, and not another word. Maybe you're equally curious about me; if so, I'll tell you something of that afterwards. There's pipes, cigars, and cigarettes—take your choice."

Wilson felt that he was under certain obligations to tell something of himself, but in addition to this he really felt a desire to confide in someone. It would be a relief. The fact remained, however, that as yet he really knew nothing of Danbury and so must move cautiously. He told him of the incident in his life which led to his leaving school, of his failure to find work in Boston, of his adventure in helping the girl to escape, which led to the house. Here he confined himself to the arrival of the owner, of his wound, and of the attack made upon him in the house. He told of his search through the dark house, of the closed cellar door, and of the blow in the head.

"Someone bundled me into a carriage, and I came to on the way to the hospital. It was the next day, after I awoke in my cot and persuaded them to let me out, that I had the good luck to run into you. My clothes had been left in the house and all I had was the lounging robe which I had put on early in the evening."

"But you had your nerve to dare venture out in that rig!"

"I had to get back to the house. The girl didn't know where I had gone, and, for all I knew, was at the mercy of the same madman who struck me."

"That's right—you had to do it. But honestly, I would rather have met twenty more maniacs in the dark than go out upon the street in that Jap juggler costume of yours. What happened after you left me?"

Wilson told of the empty house, of finding the note, of locating the other house, and finally of the letter and his race for the wharf.

"And then I ran into Stubbs and landed here," he concluded.

"What did Stubbs tell you of this expedition?"

"Nothing—except that we are running to Carlina."

"Yes," sighed Danbury, dreamily, "to Carlina. Well, things certainly have been coming fast for you these last few days. And I'll tell you right now that when we reach Carlina if you need me or any of this crew to help you get the girl, you can count on us. We've got a pretty good job of our own cut out, but perhaps the two will work together."

He relighted his pipe, adjusted thyhe pillows more comfortably, and with hands clasped behind his head began his own story.

"To go back a little," he said, "father made a pot of money in coffee—owned two or three big plantations down around Rio; but he had no sooner got a comfortable pile together than he died. That's way back just about as far as I can remember. As a kid I wasn't very strong, and so cut out school mostly—got together a few scraps of learning under a tutor, but never went to college. Instead of that, the mater let me knock around. She's the best ever that way, is the mater—tends to her Bridge, gives me an open account, and, so long as she hears once a month, is happy.

"Last year I took a little trip down to Dad's plantations, and from there rounded the Horn on a sailing vessel and landed way up the west coast in Carlina. It was just chance that led me to get off there and push in to Bogova. I'd heard of gold mines in there and thought I'd have a look at them. But before I came to the gold mines I found something else."

He paused a moment. Then, without a word, rose slowly and, fumbling about a moment in a cedar chest near his bunk, drew out a photograph.

"That's she," he said laconically.

Wilson saw the features of a girl of twenty, a good profile of rather a Southern cast, and a certain poise of the head which marked her as one with generations of equally good features back of her.

If not decidedly beautiful, she was most attractive, giving an impression of an independent nature enlivened with humor. It seemed to Wilson that she might furnish a very good balance to Danbury.

"You lose the best part of her," said Danbury, reseating himself on the bunk. "You can't see the eyes and——"

Danbury roused himself and sat on the edge of the bunk leaning far forward, elbows on knees, gazing steadily at Wilson.

"Say, those eyes do keep a fellow up, don't they? I had only to see them once to know that I'd fight for them as long as I lived. Queer what a girl's eyes—the girl's eyes—will do. I'll never forget that first time. She was sitting in one of those palm-filled cafes where the sun sprinkles in across the floor. She was dressed in black, not a funeral black, but one of those fluffy things that make crepe look like royal purple. She had a rose, a long-stemmed rose, in her bodice, and one of those Spanish lace things over her hair. I can see her now,—almost reach out and touch her. I went in and took a table not far away and ordered a drink. Then I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She was with an older woman, and, say—she didn't see a man in that whole room. As far as they were concerned they might have been so many flies buzzing round among the palms. Then a couple of government officers lounged in and caught sight of her. They all know her down there 'cause she is of the blood royal. Her grandmother's sister was the last queen and was murdered in cold blood. Yes, sir, and there weren't men enough there to get up and shoot the bunch who did it. Pretty soon these fellows began to get fresh. She didn't mind them, but after standing it as long as she decently could, she rose and prepared to go out.

"Go out, with an American in the place? Not much! There was a row, and at the end of it they carried the two officers off on a stretcher. Then they pinched me and it cost me $500 to get out.

"But it gave me the chance to meet her later on and learn all about how she had been cheated out of her throne. You see the trouble was that republics had been started all around Carlina,—they grow down there like mushrooms,—so that soon some of these chumps thought they must go and do the same thing, although everything was going finely and they were twice as prosperous under their queen as the other fellows were under their grafting presidents. Then one of the wild-eyed ones stabbed Queen Marguerite, her grandaunt, you know, and the game was on. Isn't it enough to make your blood boil? As a matter of fact, the whole blamed shooting-match wouldn't make a state the size of Rhode Island, so it isn't worth much trouble except for the honor of the thing. There is a bunch of men down there who have kept the old traditions alive by going out into the streets and shooting up the city hall every now and then, but they've mostly got shot themselves for their pains,—which hasn't done the princess any good. I studied the situation, and the more I thought of her getting done in this way, the madder I got. So I made up my mind she should have her old throne back. She said she didn't want it, but that was only because she didn't want me to get mixed up in it. At first it did look like a kind of dubious enterprise, but I prowled around and then I discovered a trump card. Up in the hills there is a bunch of wild Indians who have always balked at a republic, mostly because the republic tried to clean them out just to keep the army in practice.

"But the Chief, the Grand Mogul and priest of them all, is this same man Stubbs doesn't like—the same who, for some devilish reason of his own chose this particular time to sail for South America. But he isn't a bad lot, this Valverde, though he is a queer one. He speaks English like a native and has ways that at times make me think he is half American. But he isn't—he is a heathen clear to his backbone, with a heathen heart and a heathen temper. When he takes a dislike to a man he's going to make it hot for him some day or other. It seems that he is particularly sore against the government now because of a certain expedition sent up there a little over a year ago, and because of the loss of a heathen idol which——"

"What?" broke in Wilson, half rising from his chair. "Is this——"

"The priest, they all call him. Mention the priest down there and they knew whom you mean."

"Go on," said Wilson, breathing a bit more rapidly.

"Do you know him? Maybe you caught a glimpse of him that day you were at the house. He was there."

"No, I don't know him," answered Wilson, "but—but I have heard of him. It seems that he is everywhere."

"He is a queer one. He can get from one place to another more quickly and with less noise than anyone I ever met. He's a bit uncanny that way as well as other ways. However, as I said, he's been square with me and it didn't take us long to get together on a proposition for combining our interests; I to furnish guns, ammunition, and as many men as possible, he to fix up a deal with the old party, do the scheming, and furnish a few hundred Indians. I've had the boat all ready for a long while, and Stubbs, one of Dad's old skippers, out for men. Yesterday he jumped at me from Carlina, where I thought he was, 10,000 miles away by sea, and gave the word. Now he is off again on the Columba and is to meet me in Choco Bay."

Danbury relighted his pipe and added between puffs over the match:

"Now you know the whole story and where we're going. Are you with us?"

"Yes," answered Wilson, "I am with you."

But his head was whirling. Who was this man who struck at him in the dark, and with whom he was now joined in an expedition against Carlina? One thing was sure; that if the priest was on the boat with Sorez it boded ill for the latter. It was possible the girl might never reach Carlina.

"Now for terms. I'll give you twenty a week and your keep to fight this out with me. Is it a bargain?"

"Yes," answered Wilson.

"Shake on it."

Wilson shook. Danbury rang for the steward.

"Togo—a bottle. We must drink to her health."



CHAPTER XIII

Of Powder and Bullets

Day after day of the long voyage passed without incident. Danbury and Wilson in the close relationship necessary aboard ship grew to be warm friends. And yet the latter still remained silent concerning that part of his quest relating to the hidden treasure. This was not so much due to any remaining suspicion of Danbury as to the fact that the latter seemed so occupied with his own interests. In fact, he was tempted far more to confide in Stubbs. The latter would be an ideal partner on such a search. As the days passed he became more and more convinced that it would be to his advantage to enlist the services of Stubbs even upon as big a basis as share and share alike.

Danbury trod the decks each day with a light step, and at night relieved his buoyant heart of its dreams to Wilson and of its plans to Stubbs. The latter had spoken once or twice of the necessity of finding something for the men below to do, but Danbury had waved aside the suggestion with a good-natured "Let 'em loaf." But finally their grumblings and complainings grew so loud that Stubbs was forced to take some notice of it, and so, upon his own responsibility, had them up on deck where he put them through a form of drill. But they rebelled at this and at last reached a condition which threatened to become serious.

"We've jus' got to find something for them to do," Stubbs informed him.

"They ought certainly to be kept in trim. Don't want them to get flabby."

"'Nother thing, they are livin' too high," said Stubbs. "Salt pork and hardtack is what they needs,—not beefsteak."

"Nonsense, Stubbs. This isn't a slave-ship. Nothing like good fodder to keep 'em in trim. They are getting just what you get at a training table, and I know what that does,—keeps you fit as a king."

"Mebbe so. I'll tell you what it'ull do for them,—it'll inspire 'em to cut our bonny throats some day. The ale alone 'ud do it. Think of servin' ale to sech as them with nothin' to do but sit in the sun. Darned if they ain't gettin' to look as chubby as them babies you see in the advertisements. An' their tempers is growin' likewise."

"Good fightin' spirit, eh?"

"Yes," drawled Stubbs, "an' a hell of a bad thing to have on the high seas."

"Well," said Danbury, after a moment's thought, "you have them up on deck to-morrow and I'll have a talk with them."

It was Danbury's first opportunity to look over his mercenaries as a whole and he gave a gasp of surprise at the row after row of villainous faces raised with sneering grins to his. Well in the front squatted "Bum" Jocelin, known to the water-front police for fifteen years,—six feet of threatening insolence; "Black" Morrison with two penitentiary sentences back of him; and "Splinter" Mallory, thin, leering, shifty. And yet Danbury, after he had recovered himself a bit, saw in their very ugliness the fighting spirit of the bulldog. He had not hired them for ornament but for the very lawlessness which led them rather to fight for what they wished than to work for it. Doubtless below their flannel shirts they all had hearts which beat warmly. So he met their gaze frankly and, raising one foot to a capstan, he bent forward with a smile and began. Stubbs stood by with the strained expression of a father who stands helpless watching a son do a foolish thing. On the other hand, Wilson, though he would not have done it himself, rather admired the spirit that prompted the act.

"Men," began Danbury,—and Stubbs choked back an exclamation at his gentleness,—"men, I haven't told you much about the errand upon which you are bound, but I feel now that you ought to know. You signed for two months and agreed to accept your orders from me. You were told there would be some scrapping——"

"The hell we were," broke in Splinter. Danbury, ignoring the interruption, blandly continued:

"And you were all picked out as men who wouldn't balk at a bit of a mix-up. But you weren't told what it is all about.

"Well, then, this is the game: down there in Carlina where we are going there is a one-horse republic where they used to have a dinky little kingdom. A republic is all right when it's an honest republic, but this one isn't. It was stolen, and stolen from the finest woman in the world. I'm going to give you all a chance to see her some day, and I know you'll throw up your hats then and say the game is worth it, if you don't before."

Their faces were as stolid as though they could not understand a word of what he was saying. But he had lost sight of them and saw only the eyes of the girl of whom he was speaking.

"Once, when she was a little girl, they put her in prison. And it wasn't a man's prison either, but a mangy, low-down, dog kennel. Think of it! Put her down there in the dark among the rats. But that was too much for the decent ones of even that crowd, and they had to let her go. So now she lives in a little house in her kingdom, like a beggar outside her own door."

Danbury had worked himself up to a fever pitch. His words came hoarsely and he stepped nearer in his excitement. But as he paused once more, he realized that he was facing a pack of dummies. For a moment he stared at them in amazement. Then he burst out,

"Are you with us, men? Haven't we something worth fighting for—something worth fighting hard for?"

He heard a rough guffaw from a few men in the rear; then a voice:

"It's the dough we're out fer—no damned princess."

Danbury whitened. He leaped forward as though to throw himself into the midst of them all, and reached for the throat of the man who had spoken. But Stubbs who had been watching, drew his revolver, and followed close behind. With the aid of Wilson he separated the two and drew off Danbury, while keeping the others at bay.

"Go below," he commanded. "Let me talk to 'em a minute."

"But—but the damned jellyfish—the——"

Wilson seized his arm and managed to drag him away and down to his cabin. Then Stubbs, with feet wide apart, faced the gang. His voice was low, but they did not miss a word.

"Th' cap'n," he began, "has talked to ye as though ye was white men 'cause he's young and clean an' doesn't know the likes of ye. He hain't had so much to do with a bunch of white-livered, swill-tub jail birds as I have. But don't you go further an' make th' mistake thet 'cause he's young he ain't a man yet. 'Cause if ye do, ye'll wake up sudden with a jolt. Even if he did mistake a pack of yaller dogs fer men, don't ye think he doesn't know how to handle yaller dogs. But I s'pose ye are jus' as good to shoot at as better. Now I gut ye aboard this craft—me, Stubbs," he pointed to his breast with a thick forefinger, "an' ye're goneter earn yer grub afore ye're done."

"Shanghaied—we was shanghaied," ventured Splinter.

"You was, was ye? D' ye think ye could make anyone b'lieve a man in his sober senses would shanghai the likes of you? But howsomever that may be, here you is and here you stays till ye git ashore. Then you has yer chi'ce er gittin' shot in front er gittin' shot behind,—gittin' shot like white men er gittin' shot like niggers. 'Cause I tells you right now thet in all the shootin', I'll be hangin' round where I can spot the first man who goes the wrong way. An'," he drew his weapon from his pocket, "I can shoot."

He placed a bullet within two inches of the hand of a man who was leaning against the rail. The group huddled more closely together like frightened sheep.

"Now," he concluded, "ye're goneter git more exercise an' less grub arter this. Tuck it away fer future ref'rence thet th' next time yer cap'n talks to yer ye'd better show a little life. Now, jus' ter prove ye appreciate what he said, cheer. An' cheer good, ye dogs."

They let out a howl.

"Now back to yer kennels!"

They slunk away, crowding one another in their effort to get from the range of the weapon which Stubbs still carelessly held pointed at their heels.

It was several days after this that Wilson was pacing the deck alone one night rather later than usual. The sky was filled with big, top-heavy clouds which rolled across the purple, blotting out every now and then the half moon which sprinkled the sea with silver butterflies. The yacht quivered as though straining every timber, but it looked to Wilson a hopeless task ever to run out from under the dark cup and unchanging circumference. It seemed as though one might go on this path through eternity with the silver butterflies ever fluttering ahead into the boundless dark.

He lounged up to Martin at the wheel. The latter, a sturdy, somewhat reserved man, appeared glad to see him and showed evidence of being disturbed about something. He frequently glanced up from the lighted compass before the wheel as though on the point of speaking, but turned back to his task each time, reconsidering his impulse. Finally he cleared his throat and remarked with a fine show of indifference, "Everything been all quiet below, to-day?"

"So far as I know."

"Been down there lately?"

"No; but the men seemed this morning in unusually good form. More cheerful than they've been at all."

"So?"

For a few moments he appeared engrossed in his work, turning the creaking wheel to the right, the left, and finally steadying it on its true course. Wilson waited. The man had said enough to excite his interest and he knew the best way to induce him to talk more freely was to keep silent.

"Happened to go for'ard afore my shift to-night an' I heard some of 'em talkin'. Didn't sound to me like th' sorter talk that's good aboard ship."

"So? What were they saying?"

"Nothin' much," he answered, frightened back into stubborn silence.

"They talk pretty free at all times," returned Wilson. "They haven't learned much about ship discipline."

"I hopes they don't act as free as they talk."

"No fear of that, I guess."

Another long silence. Then Martin asked:

"Where's the ammunition stowed?"

"We had it moved the other day to the vacant cabins just beyond our quarters."

"All of it?"

"Every cartridge. Why do you ask that, Martin?"

"I happened to go for'ard afore my shift," he repeated.

Wilson arose and stepped to his side.

"See here, if you heard anything unusual, I'd like to know it before I turn in."

"My business is a-workin' of this wheel, an' what I says is we've gut a damned bad cargo."

Wilson smiled. After all, it was probably only the constitutional jealousy that always exists between a seaman and a landsman.

"All right, Martin, only we're all in the same kettle. Keep your ears open, and if you hear anything definite let me know."

"Then I says I puts my chest agin my door afore I sleeps an' I watches out for shadows when I'm at the wheel."

"And have you seen any to-night?"

"No, an' I hopes I won't."

"All right. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

Wilson stepped out of the pilot-house and made a short round of the ship. He even ventured down to the forward hold, but all was as quiet there as ever. He turned towards his own cabin. Danbury's light was out. Beyond he saw the form of the first mate who had been posted there to guard the ammunition. He spoke to him and received a cordial reply.

"All quiet?"

"All quiet, sir."

The door of Stubbs' cabin was closed, and he heard within his heavy snoring. He entered his own cabin and closed the door. But he felt uneasy and restless. Instead of undressing he threw himself down on the bunk, after placing his pistol underneath his pillow. Martin's talk had been just suggestive enough to start his brain to working, disturbed as he was by so many other things. He had an impulse to rouse Stubbs. He wanted someone with whom to talk. He would also have been more comfortable if he had been able to make sure that those bits of parchment were still safe in his comrade's chest, where he had locked them. If the crew once got even a suspicion that there was on board such a golden chance as these offered, it would be a temptation difficult for even better men to resist. He realized that if they were able sufficiently to surrender each his own selfish individual desires and organize compactly under a single leader, they would form an almost irresistible force. But of course the key to the whole situation lay in the ammunition. Without this they were helpless. Knives and clubs could not resist powder and bullet. He became drowsy finally and his thoughts wandered once more to the treasure and then to Jo until his eyes closed and, though his lips still remained tense, he slept.

He was awakened by the sound of a muffled fall in the next cabin. He sprang to his feet, seizing his weapon. The electric light wire had been cut so that the cabin was in suffocating darkness. By some instinct he forced himself flat against the wall by the door. The next second the door was flung open and two forms hurled themselves with a grunt upon the bunk. He fired twice and darted out into the passageway. Here all was confusion, but all was dark. Man fell against man with oaths and wild threshing of the arms, but they all knew one another for friends. He was for the moment safe. The doors to the cabins of Stubbs and Danbury were wide open. He knew that either they had escaped by some such miracle as his, or that they were beyond help. It seemed to him that there was but one thing to do, make the deck and collect whatever honest men were left. The mutineers were still fighting with one another and had grown so panic-stricken that they were making little progress towards their goal. Quick action might even now save the ship. He heard a voice raised in a vain endeavor to control them.

"Steady, boys, steady! Wait till we get a light."

At the head of the stairs leading to the deck he found a sentinel. He struck at him and then grappled. The two rolled on the deck, but the struggle was brief. Wilson soon had him pinned to the deck. He raised the fellow's head and threw him with all his strength backwards. The man lay very still after this.

When he rose to his feet the deck was as deserted as though nothing at all unusual were going on below. He rushed to the pilot-house. The ship swerved tipsily and then the engines ceased their throbbing. Martin lay limply over his wheel. The cutthroats had got below to the engines.

For a moment his head whirled with twenty impossible plans. Then he steadied himself. There was but one thing to do; the gang was evidently so far in control of the ship as to prevent aid from the crew; Danbury and Stubbs were doubtless unconscious, if not dead, and he was left, the one man still free to act. Once the rifles were loaded a hundred men could not control this crowd, but before then—one man with a loaded weapon and with his wits about him, might make himself master.

He groped his way down the stairs and into the midst of the tumult. No one had as yet obtained a light. The leader had succeeded in partly controlling his gang, but one man had only to brush the shoulder of another to start a fight. David elbowed through them, striking right and left in the endeavor to stir up anew the panic. He succeeded instantly. In two minutes pandemonium reigned. Then a man scrambled in with a lantern and was greeted with a cheer. Wilson turned, shot twice, and ducked. The cabin was once more in darkness and confusion.

"Wha' th' hell?" roared Splinter.

Wilson plunged on until he stood facing the door which still barred the way to the cartridges. It was intact. At this point someone reached his side with an axe. Snatching it from the fellow's hand he himself swung it against the lock. He had two things in mind; the act would turn away suspicion, and once within the small room, with his back to the cartridges, he could take the men one by one as they pressed through the narrow door. He had on his cartridge belt and ought to be able, not only to keep them at bay until possible aid arrived from the crew's quarters, but might even be able to start sufficient panic to drive them out altogether. Wilson swung a couple of times until the lock weakened. Splinter shouted:

"Fer Gawd's sake, don't act like frightened rats! Keep cool now an' we have 'em."

One more blow and the door fell. With a jump Wilson scrambled in and, turning, fired four times in rapid succession. In the pause which ensued he refilled his weapon. There was a chorus of ugly growls and a concerted movement towards the door. He shot again, aiming low and relying as much on the flash and noise to frighten them as on actual killing. To those without it sounded as though there might be several men. No one knew but what the man next to him had turned traitor. They groped for one another's throats and finally, as though by one impulse, crowded for the exit. They fought and pounded and kicked at each other. It was every man for himself and the Devil take the hindmost. Wilson helped them along by continued shooting—aiming high and low. In five minutes the cabin was cleared save for the wounded, who managed, however, to drag themselves out of sight.

As Wilson fell back exhausted and half choked from the smoke with which the room was filled, he heard the bark of pistols above and knew that the crew had reached the deck. He waited only long enough to recover strength to walk, and then moved cautiously forward. He was undisturbed. The mutineers had gone, to the last man able to stand. He groped his way to Danbury's cabin and his hand fell upon a limp form in the bunk. But even as he recoiled the man moved and muttered feeble queries.

"Are you safe, Danbury?" gasped Wilson.

"What—what's the trouble? Give me a drink—brandy."

Wilson turned to the wine closet just beyond the bunk and drew out the first bottle his fingers touched. He placed it to Danbury's lips, and the latter took several deep swallows of it, spitting indignantly as he thrust it away.

"Darned stuff—Martini cocktails. But—but——"

Wilson found himself laughing. Nothing Danbury could have said would so prove the inconsequence of his injuries. It relieved his strained nerves until, in reaction, he became almost hysterical.

"What's the joke?" demanded Danbury, rising to a sitting posture and feeling at the cut in the back of his head. "Where's the lights? What has happened?"

"A bit of a fight. Can you make your feet?"

Danbury groped for the side of the bunk, and with the help of Wilson stood up. He was at first dizzy, but he soon came to himself.

"If you can walk, come on. I want to look for Stubbs."

Wilson groped his way into the smoke-filled passageway and across to the other cabin. They found Stubbs lying on the floor unconscious. A superficial examination revealed no serious wound and so, urged on by the increasing noise above, they left him and hurried to the deck. They found the second mate pushing the stubborn group nearer and nearer their own quarters. He was backed by only two men armed with knives and clubs. The gang was hesitating, evidently tempted to turn upon the tiny group, but with the appearance of Wilson and Danbury they pressed at once for the narrow opening.

At sight of them Danbury completely lost his head. It was as though he then first realized what had actually been attempted. He raised his weapon and was upon the point of shooting into their midst when Wilson knocked up his hand and sent the revolver spinning across the deck. But Danbury scarcely looked around to see who had foiled him. He rushed headlong into the group as though he were the center of a football team. He struck right and left with his naked fists and finally by chance fell upon Splinter. The two rolled upon the deck until the mate stooped and picked up Splinter bodily and, raising him above his head, fairly hurled him like a bag of grain down the ladder after the last of the mutineers.

Danbury, in spite of his loss of blood, held himself together wonderfully. For the next hour all were busy, and between them placed Splinter in irons, and crowded the mutineers, a cowed lot, into the forward hold. They found Stubbs still unconscious, but he came around after a good swig of brandy. He rose to his elbow and blinked dazedly at Danbury.

"What's the trouble?" he demanded.

"Mutiny," answered Danbury, briefly.

"And me laid up, an' outer it. Jus' my pizen luck," he growled.



CHAPTER XIV

In the Shadow of the Andes

As soon as lights were secured an examination of the battle ground was made. Four men were found, three of them with leg wounds which did no more than cripple them, and one with a scalp wound made by a grazing bullet which had knocked him unconscious. There was no surgeon aboard, but one of the mates had a good working knowledge of surgery and cleaned and dressed the wounds.

As soon as it was daylight Stubbs had a talk with the mutineers.

"'Course," he informed them, "'course ye knows the medicine ye gets fer mutiny on the high seas. Every yeller dog of ye can look for'ard to a prison sentence of twenty years or so. As for Splinter—yer leader—I can 'member the time I'd ha' had the pleasure er watchin' him squirm from a yardarm without any further preliminaries. As 'tis, maybe he'll be 'lowed to think it over th' rest of his life in a cell."

He kept them on a diet of crackers and corned beef and they never opened their lips in protest. Every day they were brought up morning and afternoon for drill. After this the three men divided the night into the three shifts so that at least one of them was always upon guard. But the men were thoroughly cowed, and evidently hoped, by good behavior, to reestablish themselves before port was reached.

It was during these night watches that Wilson had many long talks with Stubbs—talks that finally became personal and which in the end led him, by one of those quick impulses which make in lives for a great deal of good or wrecking harm, to confide in him the secret of the treasure. This he did at first, however, without locating it nearer than "Within five hundred miles of where we're going," and with nothing in his narrative to associate the idol with the priest. Truth to tell, Wilson was disappointed at the cool way in which Stubbs listened. But the latter explained his indifference somewhat when he remarked, removing the clay pipe from his mouth:

"M' boy, I'm sorter past my treasure hunting days. Once't I dug up 'bout an acre of sand on one of the islands of the South seas an' it sorter took all th' enthusiasm, as ye might say, fer sech sport outern me. We didn't git nothin' but clam shells, as I remember. Howsomever, I wouldn't git nothin' but clam shells outern a gold mine. Thet's th' way m' luck runs. Maybe th' stuff's there, maybe it ain't; but if I goes, it ain't."

He added, a moment later:

"Howsomever, I can see how, in order to find the girl, you has to go. The dago gent—if he lives—will make fer that right off. I've heern o' women with the gift o' conjurin'—like seventh sons o' seventh sons—but I ain't ever met with sech. I dunno now—I dunno now but what I might consider your proposition if we comes outern this right and the cap'n here can spare me. I can't say this minute as how I takes much stock in it, as ye might say. But I tell ye fair, I'm glad to help a pardner and glad to have a try, fer the sake of the girl if nothin' more. I don't like ter see an older man play no sech games as this man—who d' ye say his name is?"

"Sorez."

"Maybe we can find out more 'bout him down here. Anyhow, we'll talk it over, boy, when we gits through this. In the meanwhile yer secret is safe."

Wilson felt better at the thought that there was now someone with whom he could talk freely of the treasure. It became the main topic of conversation during the watch which he usually sat out with Stubbs, after his own.

The ship's log of the remainder of this long journey would read as uninterestingly as that of an ocean liner. Day succeeded day, and week followed week, with nothing to disturb the quiet of the trip. A stop was made at Rio for coal, another after rounding the Horn (here they did not have the excitement of even high seas), and another halfway up the West coast. But at these places not a man was allowed to leave the ship, Danbury, Wilson, and Stubbs themselves remaining on board in fear of a possible attempt on the part of the mercenaries to land.

As a matter of fact, the latter were thoroughly frightened and did their best by good behavior to offset the effect of their attempt. They were obedient at drills, respectful to all, and as quiet as the crew itself. This was as Stubbs had anticipated, but he on his side gave no sign of relenting in the slightest until the day before they sighted Choco Bay, where the landing was to be made. On the contrary, by dark hints and suggestions he gave them to understand that certain of them—and no one knew who was included in this generality—stood actually in danger of prison sentences. So they outdid one another in the hope of reinstating themselves. At the conclusion of what was to be their last drill Stubbs called them to attention and sprung the trap to which he had been gradually leading them. He studied them with a face heavy with clouds.

"We are nearing our port," he drawled, "an' some of you are nearin' the jail. An' a jail in these diggin's, my beauties, is a thing that ain't no joke, 'cause they shets you up below ground where ye has only your natural frien's the rats fer playmates,—rats as big as dogs an' hungry as sharks, as ye might say. Sometimes the cap'n of these here ports fergits ye—'specially if they's frien's er mine. If they thinks of it, they brings yer sour bread an' water an' yer fights the rats fer it; if they fergits, as they has a way er doin', you jus' stay there until the rats gits stronger than you. Then, little by little, yer goes. But they buries yer bones very partic'lar, if they finds any. They takes their time in this country, they takes their time."

Several of the men in the rear huddled closer to one another. One or two in the front row wiped the back of their hands over their brows.

"They can't take 'Merican citizens," growled someone.

"No, they can't—wuss luck for the 'Merican citizens. The others stand some show—but 'Merican citizens don't stand none. 'Cause they shets yer up without a hearin' and communicates with the consul. The consul is drunk mostly an' devilesh hard to find an' devilesh slow to move. But the rats ain't,—Lord, no, the rats ain't. They is wide awake an' waitin'."

A big man in the rear shouldered his way to the front.

"See here, Cap'n," he blurted out, "I've had a talk with some of the men, an' we don't want none er that. We've done wrong, maybe, but, Gawd, we don't want thet. Give us a show,—give us a fightin' show. We'll go where you say and we'll fight hard. We weren't used to this sorter thing an' so it comes a bit tough. But give us a show an' we'll prove what we can do."

He turned to the band behind him.

"Wha' d' yer say, fellers? Is this on the level?"

"Sure! Sure! Sure!"

The cry came heartily.

Stubbs thought a moment.

"Is this here another little game?" he asked. "Once yer git on land are yer goin' ter turn yeller agin?"

"No! No! No!"

"'Cause it won't do yer no good, anyhow. Now I tell yer—the cap'n an' I had a talk over this an' I was fer lettin' yer take yer medicine an' pickin' up another bunch. Men is cheap down here. But he says, 'No; if they'll act like white men, give 'em a show. I want to git this princess with 'Mericans an' I want to show these fellers what 'Mericans can do behin' a rifle.' Our game is to git to Carlina and lick the bunch of Guinnies thet has stolen the young lady's throne. If ye wanter do thet an' do it hard and square—well, he's fer lettin' this other thing drop. Fight an' yer gits cash 'nuff to keep drunk fer a year; squeal an' yer gits shot in the back without any more talk. There's a square offer—do ye take it like men?"

"Sure! Give us a show!"

"Then three cheers fer yer cap'n—Cap'n Danbury."

This time the cheers were given with a will, and the boat rang with the noise.

"Now then, lay low an' take yer orders. An' I wish yer luck."

"Three cheers fer Cap'n Stubbs," shouted someone.

And as Stubbs bashfully beat a hasty retreat, the cheers rang lustily in his ears.

But he reported to Danbury with his face beaming.

"Now," he said, "ye've gut some men worth something. They'll be fightin' fer themselves—fightin' to keep outern jail. Mutiny has its uses."

The next morning the anchor clanked through blue waters into golden sand and the throbbing engines stopped.

The land about Choco Bay is a pleasant land. It is surpassed only by the plains along the upper Orinoco where villages cluster in the bosom of the Andes in a season of never changing autumn. Nearer the coast the climate is more fitful and more drowsy. One wonders how history would have been changed had the early Puritans chanced upon such rich soil for their momentous conquering, instead of the rock-ribbed, barren coast of New England. The same energy, the same dauntless spirit, the same stubborn clinging to where the foot first fell, if expended here, would have gained for them and their progeny a country as near the Garden of Eden as any on earth. But perhaps the balmy breezes, the warming sun, the coaxing sensualism of Nature herself would have wheedled them away from their stern principles and turned them into a nation of dreamers. If so, what dreamers we should have had! We might have had a dozen more Keatses, perhaps another Shakespeare. For this is a poet's land, where things are only half real. The birds sing about Choco Bay.

Rippling through the blue waters after dark, the yacht glided in as close to the shore as possible. The morning sun revealed a golden semicircle of sand rimming the turquoise waters of the bay. Across the blue sky above seagulls skimmed and darted and circled; so clear the waters beneath that the clean bottom showed like a floor of burnished gold. The harbor proper lay ten miles beyond, where a smaller inlet with deeper soundings was protected from the open inrush of the sea by the promontory forming one tip of this broader crescent. Far, very far in the distance the lofty Andes raised their snowy crests—monarchs which, Jove-like, stood with their heads among the clouds. So they had stood while kings were born, fought their petty fights, died, and gave place to others; so they stood while men contended for their different gods; so they stood while men loved and followed their loves into other spheres. It was these same summits upon which Wilson now looked which had greeted Quesada, and these same summits at which Quesada had shaken his palsied fist. It was these same summits which but a short while before must have greeted Jo; it was possible that at their very base he might find her again, and with her a treasure which should make her a queen before men. It made them seem very intimate to him.



CHAPTER XV

Good News and Bad

Though Wilson had listened with interest enough to the plans of the present campaign as outlined to him by Danbury, it must be confessed that he was still a bit hazy about the details. He understood that three interests were involved; those of the Revolutionary party, who under General Otaballo were inspired by purely patriotic motives in their desire to see the present government overthrown; those of Danbury, who was governed by more sentimental considerations, and, finally, those of the priest, who was prompted by revenge. General Otaballo was the last of one of those old families of Carlina who had spent their lives in the service of the family of Montferaldo. His grandfather, to go back no further, had died defending the last reigning queen, his father had been shot for leading a conspiracy to restore the family, and now the grandson was following in the old way. He was an old man now and had missed death a hundred times by narrow margins owing to his connection with just such enterprises as this. This was to be his last stand and into it he was throwing his heart and soul and to his standard gathering whatever forces he could win by hook or crook. It was he who had heard of Danbury and it was he who had prompted him to bargain with the priest. With a record of past defeats he himself had lost prestige with the hill people. And yet both the priest and Danbury turned to him now to manage the campaign. He knew the people, he knew every detail of the Republican army, every particular of the forts and other defenses, and every traitor in their ranks.

To take Carlina it was necessary only to capture Bogova, its capital. This city of some 20,000 inhabitants lay about the inner port and some eight miles from the bay where Danbury's yacht now rode at anchor, safely, because of the treachery of the harbor patrol, who to a man were with the Revolutionists. Danbury had been instructed by Otaballo, through the priest, to make this harbor and remain until receiving further instructions. The latter came within three hours in the form of two letters; one from the General, and the other, enclosed, from the princess herself. Danbury tore open the letter before glancing at the official communication. He read it through and then stood with it in his hand looking dreamily out across the blue waters. He whistled to himself. Then handing it to Wilson, he asked,

"What do you think of that?"

Wilson read,

"DEAR DICK:

I hope you have thought over what I said to you and haven't planned to do anything foolish. Because, honestly, it can't do any good. The old people are gone and with them the old cause. But I have heard rumors on all sides until I am nearly frightened to death about what you may have stirred up. When General Otaballo stole in this morning and showed me beneath his coat that old uniform I knew something serious was meant.

And, Dicky, I don't want to be a queen—even to get revenge upon the cads who haven't been nice. I don't want to rule; it's more bother than it's worth; I'm afraid the royal blood has got pretty well thinned out in me, for I don't feel any thrill stirring within at the war-cry,—only trembles. I want to jog along the same old peaceful path and I want you to come and see me like the dear good friend you've always been. And if you've got your pockets full of pistols, and your hands full of swords, throw them away, Dicky, and just jump into a carriage and come up and have supper with me. I've really been lonesome for you,—more, to be honest, than I thought I'd be or than I like to be. It's the woman and not the queen who has been lonesome, too. So be a good boy and don't get either of us into trouble, but bring the general to tea with you. We can fight it all out just as well over the cakes and no one the wiser.

Yours, BEATRICE."

Wilson smiled.

"I should think," he said, "that it might be pleasant to—take supper with her."

Danbury spoke earnestly.

"But a man can't sit and eat cakes while such as she is insulted on her own streets. A man can't drink tea with her—he must be up and doing for her. I shall take supper with her when she is a queen in her own kingdom."

"She doesn't seem to want to be queen."

"But she shall," he exclaimed, "by the grace of God, she shall, within two days!"

He tore open the missive from General Otaballo, and read aloud the instructions. But not until the last paragraph did Wilson learn anything of moment. Then, in a second his whole attitude towards the campaign was changed.

"In addition to your present interest in this movement, I have news that ought to spur your men on to added effort; the dogs of Republicans have arrested and imprisoned an American young lady, who reached here on the Columba in company with Dr. Sorez. The latter, though formerly a loyal Republican, has for some reason been thought in league with us, though, as far as I know, he is not. But the girl is the victim of the arbitrary and unjust persecution which has always been meted out to foreigners."

Wilson was left dumb for a moment. But his mind soon grasped the urgency of the situation. He placed his hand upon Danbury's arm.

"Danbury," he said quietly, "I've got to get to her."

"You don't mean to say that this is——"

"The same one. Evidently Sorez has got her into trouble."

"But this is serious—this imprisonment. The dungeons aren't fit for a dog."

"I know," answered Wilson; "but we'll get her out."

"We can't, until we batter down the old prison. They won't let her out—not for us."

"But why should they shut her up? What possible excuse can they have? It's outrageous. If we can reach the authorities——"

"We'll be locked up too. The authorities would be glad to have you come within reach. No, their suspicions are aroused, and to make a move towards her release would be only to excite them to do worse. You'll have to wait——"

"That's impossible. Wait, with her in the hands of those ruffians!"

"Wait until we get the ruffians in our hands. Otaballo plans the attack for early to-morrow; we ought to be in the city by noon. Once the place is ours you can take a force of men and go through the jail; I imagine that it is in the old palace. That is where I was locked up overnight, at any rate; and if it is like that——"

Wilson glanced up swiftly, his face pale.

"It was bad?"

"It was worse than that. But maybe they have a better place for the women."

The remainder of the day was a nightmare to Wilson. He paced the decks until in weariness he dropped into his bunk. Both Danbury and Stubbs kept a watch upon him for fear that he might attempt to go ashore on some wild project for reaching the city. He scarcely slept an hour that night and went with the first boat load to leave the ship.

A full moon lighted the beach like a colorless sun. He stood with the silent group handling their Winchesters. There was not one of them, even though he peered somewhat anxiously into the deep shadows by the roadside, who did not feel more of a man now that he was on shore; this, even with the prospect of danger ahead. They were essentially landsmen—a thing which Stubbs had not understood. They looked upon the ship only as a prison. Now, with their feet on firm ground, they were a different lot of men. Few of them were actual cowards, and still fewer of them objected to the prospective fight, even though they had been drawn into it in what they considered an underhanded way. But the real reason for their good humor lay deeper, so deep that not one man had dared as yet whisper it to another, although each knew the other to be of the same mind. This was the prospect of loot. Whichever side won, there would be a fine confusion in a lawless city, with opportunities galore for plunder.

Most of them had vague notions that these South American cities were fabulously rich in gold. Consequently, if they could not be depended upon afterwards, they could be trusted to do their best to make the city, and to fight so long as their own security was in jeopardy. To rebel before they got there would only place them between two fires, and they feared Stubbs too well to attempt it even if there was a chance. So, take them all in all as they stood there upon dry land, they were about as fair a fighting lot as mercenaries ever average.

The last thing to be brought from the boat was the ammunition, and this was not distributed until the only method left of reaching the ship was by swimming. Wilson sat upon the boxes with a revolver in each hand until the last boat left the shore. Then Stubbs broke open the boxes and made his final speech to the men who in a way he was now placing without his authority.

"Afore I gives you these," he began, "I wants to remind yer of the little talk we had t' other night. Each man of yer gits fifty cartridges and with them either he makes Bogova er Hell. There ain't no other stoppin' places. Ye may have thought, some of ye, that once yer rifles was loaded ye could do 'bout as ye pleased. But t'ain't so. Jus' behin' you there'll march one hundred men from the hills. They don't know much, but they obey orders, an' their orders is to shoot anybody what ain't goin' our way. Ye've got a chance, marchin' straight on an' takin' the city; ye ain't gut the ghost of a chance, if ye don't take the city er if ye fergits the way and starts back towards the ship. 'Nother thing; hold tergether. It ain't pleasant fer a man caught by hisself in Bogova. Thet's all, gents, an' I hopes it will be my pleasant duty to hand ye soon a five-dollar gold piece fer everyone of these here things I now hands ye."

Wilson suppressed a shout, and soon there was the confused clicking of the locks as they closed over the full chambers of the rifles. It was music to the ears of Danbury, who from the moment his feet had touched shore was impatient to take the road without further delay. Wilson was just as bad, if not worse, which left Stubbs really the only man of them all able to think calmly and somewhat rationally.

He formed the men into columns of two, hastily inspected each one of them, and finally got them started with Danbury and the guide leading, Wilson, on the right side, and himself on the left and well to the rear where he could watch for possible desertions until the hill men took their place behind them. It was a new world for them all; the strange tropical foliage silhouetted against the vivid night sky, the piercing perfume of new flowers, and the shadow jungle either side made it seem almost unreal. At the junction of this forest path and the main road the hill men fell in behind like ghosts. They were brown, medium-sized men, dressed in cotton trousers and blouses. They were without shoes or hats and were armed with a medley of weapons, from modern rifles to the big, two-edged sword with which their ancestors fought. Save under the leadership of the priest, they were said not to be good fighters, but with him to spur them on they became veritable demons, hurling themselves upon the enemy with a recklessness only possible to religious fanatics. So fiercely had they resisted the attack made upon them in the expedition of the hills that it was said that not within ten years would it be possible to organize again sufficient men with courage to venture to cross the Andes.

The road turned and twisted, wandered up hill and down, beckoning them on through this phantasmal world which but for them would have slept on in aromatic peace. To Wilson this all seemed part of a dream. It was one of those strange visions he had seen between the stars that night after the crash when he had gazed from his study window. Somehow it did not seem to belong in his life at all. The girl did, but nothing else did. It was meant for him to have her, but in the usual ruts of men.

This was some other self which, with holsters and cartridge belt, was marching in the dark with this group of uncouth men. The only thing that made it real was the fact that he was moving towards her. Once he had found her he would go back again and seek his place in the vast machine which weaved cloths of more sober fabric. Then he thought of the map which he had taken from the chest and put into his pocket. That, too, was a part of this dream. It was fitting that in such an atmosphere as this there should be hidden gold and jewels; fitting, too, that this new self of his should be in search of them. But if only he could reach her, if only he could have her fairly within his arms, he would give this up to others who had more need of it. She had said that if ever she were in need of him, she would call and he would come to her. That seemed like an idle phrase at the time, and yet it had come true. She had called and he was now on his way to give her aid. He could not imagine her in the dungeon.

At the end of two hours, a rifle shot spat through the dark branches by the roadside. Then silence—a silence so unbroken that it seemed in a minute as though the noise had never been. Then Otaballo rode up at a gallop and gave a few orders. His men, who led the forces, divided silently and disappeared each side of the road into the dark timber. Then for another half hour the remainder of the men marched on as before. The sky began to brighten in the east. A grayish pink stole from the horizon line and grew ever brighter and brighter as though a breeze were blowing into the embers of an ash-covered fire. The pink grew to crimson and with it the shadows sought their deeper haunts. As the first real beams of the sun shot above the distant hills the angular jumble of distant roof-tops became silhouetted against the clear, blue sky.

A messenger came galloping down the road with orders for Danbury.

"You are to enter by the East Road. Follow your guide."

The sputtering report of distant rifles came to their ears.

"But, see here," protested Danbury, "the fighting is straight ahead."

"Take your orders," advised Wilson. "There will be enough of that to go around, I guess."

The rattle directly ahead acted like wine upon Danbury. Wilson heard him shout.

"All right, men. Let's take it at double-quick."

But the men could not stand the pace he cut out and so he was forced to fall back to stubborn marching. Their path swung to the right, and past many straggling houses where the good housewives were just up and kindling their fires, with no inkling of what was about. To them nothing was ahead but the meagre routine of another day. Occasionally they caught a glimpse of the passing men and returned, startled, to drag out their sleepy spouses and all the children. The sun had warmed the whole of this little world now and trees and houses stood out clean and distinct as though freshly washed. To the left the dry crackle of the rifles still sounded. It was evident that Otaballo had met with a good-sized force and one evidently prepared. It was not long before the road took them into the city proper. Before they had reached the first paved street Danbury turned to his men.

"Now, come on at a jump. There is a five-hundred-dollar bonus to the first man in the palace."

He drew a revolver from his holster and, spurring on the guide, encouraged the men to a double-quick. Wilson kept by his side. They ran through the silent streets like phantom ghouls in a deserted city. Every window was tight shut and every door double-barred. The rumor had spread fast and entered the city an hour before them. They made a great rattling as they ran heavily down the narrow alleys and through the silent squares, but they received no more attention than a party of merry-makers returning in the small hours from some country dance. Then they rounded a corner and—a blinding flash from a red line of rifles checked their brisk progress. Wilson staggered back a few steps with his hand over his eyes like a man hit beneath the chin. The noise was deafening. Then he turned slowly in a daze and looked to see what the men were doing. A half dozen of them had lain down as though to sleep, sprawled out in curiously uncomfortable attitudes. The others had paused a moment as if in doubt.

Their frightened eyes brought him to himself.

"Come on," he growled. "Shoot low and fast."

A group of the real fighters swept past to the accompaniment of biting snaps like the explosion of firecrackers. Then he fought his way to the front again, elbowing men to one side.

The thing that seemed remarkable to him was that he could face that spitting red line of rifles and yet keep his feet. They must be poor shots, he thought. He himself began to shoot rather deliberately. He did not see the faces of the men at whom he shot, for he always aimed at their breasts. Once, however, he took careful aim at a white face which lay against the breech of a rifle leveled at him. He aimed for the white space between the eyes quite as coolly as though he were facing a target. Yet he jumped a little in surprise as, following his report, he saw a blotch of red appear where he had aimed—saw it for just a second before the man reeled forward heavily and sunk as though he had no backbone.

The powder smoke choked him, but he loved it. He liked the smell of it and the taste of it, because it led to her. He lost all sense of personalities. The forms before him were not men. He forgot all about his comrades; forgot even what it was all about, except that he was hewing a path to her. It was just a noisy medley in which he had but one part to play,—shoot and press on to the dungeon which confined her.



CHAPTER XVI

The Priest Takes a Hand

How long this continued—this pressing forward, following the spitting fire of his hot rifle—Wilson could not tell. From the first he could make nothing out of the choking confusion of it all, finding his satisfaction, his motive, his inspiration in the realization that he was adding the might of his being to the force which was pounding the men who had dared to touch this girl. He was drunk with this idea. He fought blindly and with the spirit of his ancestors which ought long since to have been trained out of him. So foot by foot he fought his way on and knew it not when brought to a standstill. Only when he found himself being pressed back with the mass did he realize that something had happened; reenforcements had arrived to the enemy. But this meant only that they must fight the harder. Turning, he urged the men to stand fast. They obeyed for a moment, but the increased force was too many for them; they were steadily beaten back. For a second it looked as though they were doomed to annihilation, for once they were scattered among those narrow streets they would be shot down like dogs. At this point Wilson became conscious of the presence of a gaunt figure, dressed in a long, black robe, bearing upon back and chest in gold embroidery the figure of a blazing sun.

He stood in front of the men a second gazing up at the sky. Even the enemy paused to watch him. Then turning to the hill men who had wavered in the rear, he merely pointed his outstretched arm towards the enemy. The effect was instantaneous; they swept past the mercenaries, swept past Wilson, yelling and screaming like a horde of maniacs. They waved queer knives and spears, brandished rifles, and then, bending low, charged the frightened line of rifles before them. Wilson paused to look at this strange figure. He recognized him instantly as the priest of whom he had heard so much and who had played in his own life of late so important a part. The man was standing stock still, smiling slightly. Then with some dignity he moved away never even looking back, as confident of the result as though he were an instrument of Fate. If he had seen the man he had struck down in the house of Sorez, he gave no evidence of it. And once again Wilson found himself moving on steadily towards the old palace.

The men from the hills swept everything from before them; the superstitious enemy being driven as much by their fear as by the force of the attack. Behind them came the mercenaries to the very gates of the palace. Here they were checked by a large oaken door. From the windows either side of this puffs of smoke, fire-pierced, darted viciously. The men behind Wilson answered, but their bullets only flattened against the granite surface of the structure. He realized that this was to be the centre of the struggle. They must carry this at any cost. He heard oaths in the rear and turned to see Stubbs whipping on three men who were dragging the small Gatling gun brought from the ship. It looked like a toy. As Stubbs stooped to adjust it, Wilson saw one of the men dart from the line and disappear into the open doorway of a house to the right. Stubbs saw it, too, and now, suddenly turning, put two shots at the fellow's heels. Then he turned to the gun, with a warning to the others. But he never finished it. He sank to the street. Danbury rushed up from somewhere and bent over him, but Stubbs was already getting to his feet.

"Damned thing only glanced," he growled, putting his hand to his head, "but—it came from behind!"

As he faced the men for a second, one man slunk back into the rear. Wilson raised his revolver, but Stubbs pushed it to one side.

"Later," he said.

The gun was wheeled into place and it became the center for all the firing from the palace. In a few seconds it was pouring a steady stream of lead into the oaken door and splintering the lock into a hundred pieces. With a howl the men saw the barrier fall and pressed on. Danbury led them, but halfway he fell. Forty men swarmed over him.

Once within the palace walls, Wilson and Stubbs found their hands full. They realized as they charged through the outer guardroom and down the dark, oak-furnished hall that this gang at their heels would be difficult to control within the intricate mazes of this old building. But their attention was soon taken from this by a volley from the antechamber to the right which opened into the old throne room. The men rallied well and followed at their heels as they pressed through the door. They found here some twenty men. Wilson had emptied his revolver and found no time in which to reload.

He hurled himself upon the first man he saw and the two fell to the floor where they tumbled about like small boys in a street fight. They kicked and squirmed and reached for each other's throats until they rolled into the anteroom where they were left alone to fight it out. Wilson made his feet and the other followed as nimbly as a cat. Then the two faced each other. The humor of the situation steadied Wilson for a moment. Shot after shot was ringing through the old building, men fighting for their lives with modern rifles, and yet here he stood driven back to a savage, elemental contest with bare fists in a room built a century before. It was almost as though he had suddenly been thrust out of the present into the past. But the struggle was none the less serious.

His opponent rushed and Wilson met him with a blow which landed between the eyes. It staggered him. Wilson closed with him, but he felt a pair of strong arms tightening about the small of his back. In spite of all he could do, he felt himself break. He fell. The fellow had his throat in a second. He twisted and squirmed but to no purpose. He tried a dozen old wrestling tricks, but the fingers only tightened the firmer. Cheek against cheek the two lay and the fingers with fierce zeal sank deeper and deeper into Wilson's throat. He strained his breast in the attempt to catch a single breath. He saw the stuccoed ceiling above him slowly blur and fade. The man's weight pressed with cruel insistence until it seemed as though he were supporting the whole building. He heard his deep gulping breathing, felt his hot breath against his neck.

The situation grew maddening because of his helplessness, then terrifying. Was he going to die here in an anteroom at the hands of this common soldier? Was he going to be strangled like a clerk at the hands of a footpad? Was the end coming here, within perhaps a hundred yards of Jo? He threw every ounce in him into a final effort to throw off this demon. The fellow, with legs wide apart, remained immovable save spasmodically to take a tighter grip.

The sounds were growing far away. Then he heard his name called and knew that Stubbs was looking for him. This gave him a new lease of life. It was almost as good as a long breath. But he couldn't answer—could make no sound to indicate where he was. The call came again from almost beside the door. Then he saw Stubbs glance in among the shadows and move off again. He kicked weakly at the floor. Then he heaved his shoulders with a strength new-born in him, and the fellow's tired fingers weakened,—weakened for so long as he could take one full breath. But before he could utter the shout the merciless fingers had found their grip once more. The man on top of him, now half crazed, snapped at his ear like a dog. Then he pressed one knee into the pit of Wilson's stomach with gruelling pain. He was becoming desperate with the resistance of this thing beneath him.

Once again Stubbs appeared at the door. Wilson raised his leg and brought it down sharply. Stubbs jumped at the sound and looked in more closely. He saw the two forms. Then he bent swiftly and brought the butt of his revolver down sharply on the fellow's temple. What had been a man suddenly became nothing but a limp bundle of bones. Wilson threw him off without the slightest effort. Then he rolled over and devoted himself to the business of drinking in air—great gulps of it, choking over it as a famished man will food.

"Are you hurt anywhere?"

"No."

"Can ye stand up?"

"In a minute."

"Pretty nigh the rocks that time."

"He—had a grip like iron."

"Better keep out in the open sea where ye can be seen."

Wilson struggled up and, except for a biting pain in his throat, soon felt himself again.

"Where's Danbury?" he asked.

"Dunno. But we can't stop to look for him. That gang has gone wild. Guess we've pretty nigh cleaned out the place an' now they are runnin' free."

"Won't Otaballo reach here soon?"

"Can't tell. If he doesn't he won't find much left but the walls. I'm goin' arter them an' see what I can do."

"Better keep your eyes open. They'll shoot you in a minute."

"Mebbe so, mebbe not."

He led the way along an intricate series of corridors to a broad flight of stairs. Above there was a noise like a riot.

"If I can git 'em inter one room—a room with a lock on 't," he growled.

As they hurried along, Wilson caught glimpses of massive furniture, gilded mirrors, costly damask hangings brought over three hundred years before when this was the most extravagant country on the face of the earth. They took the broad stairs two at a time, and had almost reached the top when Wilson stopped as though he had been seized by the shoulder. For, as distinctly as he had heard Stubbs a moment ago, he heard Jo call his name. He listened intently for a repetition. From the rooms beyond he heard the scurrying of heavy feet, hoarse shouting, and the tumble of overturned furniture. That was all. And yet that other call still rang in his ears and echoed through his brain. Furthermore, it had been distinct enough to give him a sense of direction; it came from below. He hesitated only a second at thought of leaving Stubbs, but this other summons was too imperative to be neglected even for him. He turned and leaped down the stairs to the lower floor.

In some way he must find the prison and in some other way get the keys and go through those cells. If he could find some member of the palace force, this would be simple. He wandered from one room to another but stumbled only over dead men. The wounded had crawled out of sight and the others had fled. A medley of rooms opened from the long halls and Wilson ran from one of these to another. Finally, in one he caught a glimpse of a skulking figure, some underling, who had evidently returned to steal. In a second he was after him. The chase led through a half dozen chambers, but he kept at the fellow's heels like a hound after a fox. He cornered him at the end of a passageway and pinned him against the wall.

In the little Spanish he had picked up Wilson managed to make the fellow understand that he wished to find his way to the prison. But the effect of this was disastrous, for the man crumbled in his hands, sinking weak-kneed to the floor where he began to beg for mercy.

"It's not for you. I have friends there I wish to free."

"For the love of God, go not near them. It is death down there."

"Up," cried Wilson, snatching him to his feet. "Lead the way or I shoot."

He placed the cold muzzle of his revolver against the nape of the fellow's neck and drew a shriek from him.

"No! No! Do not shoot! But do not go there!"

"Not another word. On, quickly!"

"I do not know where,—I swear I do not know, signor!"

But hearing the sharp click of the weapon as Wilson cocked it, he led the way. They passed the length of several corridors which brought them to an open courtyard on the further side of which lay a low, granite building connected with the palace proper by a series of other small buildings. The fellow pointed to an open door.

"In there, signor. In there."

"Go on, then."

"But the signor is not going to take me in there? I pray,—see, I pray on my knees not."

He slumped again like a whipped dog and Wilson in disgust and not then understanding his fear, kicked him to his feet. The fellow trembled like one with the ague; his cheeks were ashen, his eyes wide and startled. One would have thought he was on his way to his execution. Half pushed by Wilson, he entered the door to what was evidently an outer guardroom, for it contained only a few rough benches, an overturned table which in falling had scattered about a pack of greasy cards and a package of tobacco. Out of this opened another door set in solid masonry, and this, too, stood ajar as though all the guards had suddenly deserted their posts, as doubtless they had at the first sound of firing. Still forcing his guide ahead, they went through this door into a smaller room and here Wilson made a thorough search for keys, but without result. It was, of course, possible that below he might still find a sentry or turnkey; but even if he did not, he ought at least to be able to determine definitely whether or not she were here. Then he would return with men enough to tear the walls down if necessary.

They passed through an oak and iron door out of this room and down a flight of stone steps which took them into the first of the damp under-passageways leading directly to the dungeons themselves. The air was heavy with moisture and foul odors. It seemed more like a vault for the dead than a house of the living. Wilson had found and lighted a lantern and this threw the feeblest of rays ahead. Before him his prisoner fumbled along close to the wall, glancing back at every step to make sure his captor was at his heels.

So they came to a second corridor running in both directions at right angles from that in which they stood. He remained very still for a moment in the hope that he might once more hear the voice which would give him some hint of which way to turn. But the only sound that greeted him was the scratch of tiny feet as a big rat scurried by. He closed his eyes and concentrated his thought upon her. He had heard that so people had communicated with one another and he himself had had proof enough, if it were true that she was here. But he found it impossible to concentrate his thoughts in this place,—even to keep his eyes closed.

Then the silence was pierced by a shriek, the sweat-starting, nerve-racked cry of a man in awful pain. It was not an appeal for mercy, or a cry for assistance, but just a naked yell wrung from a throat grown big-veined in the agony of torture. Wilson could think of only one thing, the rats. He had a vision of them springing at some poor devil's throat after he had become too weak to fight them off. The horrible damp air muffled the cry instantly. He heard an oath from his guide and the next second the fellow flew past him like a madman and vanished from sight toward the outer door. For a second Wilson was tempted to follow. The thought of Jo turned him instantly. He leaped to the left from where the cry had come, holding the lantern above his head. His feet slipped on the slimy ooze covering the clay floors, but by following close to the wall he managed to keep his feet. So he came to an open door. Within, he saw dimly two figures, one apparently bending over the other which lay prostrate. Pushing in, he thrust the lantern closer to them. He had one awful glimpse of a passion-distorted face; it was the Priest! It sent a chill the length of him. He dropped the lantern and shot blindly at the form which hurled itself upon him with the flash of a knife.

Wilson felt a slight sting upon his shoulder; the Priest's knife had missed him by the thickness of his shirt. He closed upon the skinny form and reached for his throat. The struggle was brief; the other was as a child before his own young strength. The two fell to the floor, but Wilson got to his feet in an instant and picking up the other bodily hurled him against the wall. For a second he tasted revenge, tingled with the satisfaction of returning that blow in the dark. The priest dropped back like a stunned rat.

The light in the overturned lantern was still flickering. Snatching it up he thrust it before the eyes of the man who now lay groaning in the aftermath of the agony to which he had been subjected. The lantern almost dropped from his trembling fingers as he recognized in the face distorted with pain, Don Sorez. In a flash he realized that the Priest had another and stronger reason for joining this expedition than mere revenge for his people; doubtless by a wile of some sort he had caused the arrest of these two, and then had led the attack upon the prison for the sake of getting this man as completely within his power as he had thought him now to be. The torture was for the purpose of forcing the secret of the hiding place of the image. For a second Wilson felt almost pity for the man who lay stretched out before him; he must have suffered terribly. But he wasted little thought upon this; the girl was still to be located. Wilson saw his eyes open. He stooped:

"Can you hear?" he asked. "Is the girl in this place?"

The thin lips moved, but there was no distinct response.

"Make an effort. Tell me, and I will get you out of here too."

The lips fluttered as though Sorez was spurred by this promise to a supreme effort.

"The key—he has it."

"Who?"

Wilson followed the eyes and saw the brass thing lying near the Priest.

He turned again to Sorez—

"Can you tell me anything about where she is? Is she near you?"

"I—don't know."

There was nothing for it but to open each door in order. It was of course likely that the two had been thrust into nearby cells, but had these been filled she might have been carried to the very end of the passageway. He fitted the ponderous brass thing into the first lock. It took a man's strength to turn the rusty and clumsy bolt, but it finally yielded. Again it took a man's strength to throw open the door upon its rusted hinges. A half savage thing staggered to the threshold and faced him with strange jabbering. Its face and hands were cruelly lacerated, its eyes bulging, its tattered remnants of clothes foul. Wilson faced it a second and then stepped back to let it wander aimlessly on down the corridors.

The cold sweat started from his brow. Supposing Jo had gone mad? If the dark, the slime, the rats, could do this to a man, what would they not do to a woman? He knew her; she would fight bravely and long. There would be no whimpering, no hysterics, but even so there would be a point where her woman's strength would fail. And all the while she might be calling for him and wondering why he did not come. But he was coming,—he was! He forced the key into the next door and turned another creaking lock. And once again as the door opened he saw that a thing not more than half human lay within. Only this time it crouched in a far corner laughing horribly to itself. It glared at him like some animal. He couldn't let such a thing as that out; it would haunt him the rest of his life. It was better that it should laugh on so until it died. He closed the door, throwing against it all his strength with sudden horror. God, he might go mad himself before he found her!

At the end of a dozen cells and a dozen such sights, he worked in a frenzy. The prison now rang to the shrieking and the laughter of those who wandered free, and those who, still half sane, but savage, fought with their fellows, too weak to do harm. The farther he went the more hopeless seemed the task and the more fiercely he worked. He began to sicken from the odors and the dampness. Finally the bit of metal stuck in one of the locks so fast that he could not remove it. He twisted it to the right and to the left until his numbed fingers were upon the point of breaking. In a panic of fear he twisted his handkerchief in the handle and throwing all his weight upon it tried to force it out. Then he inserted the muzzle of his revolver in the key handle and using this for a lever tried to turn it either way. It was in vain; it held as firmly as though it had been welded into the lock. In a rage he pounded and kicked at the door. Then he checked himself.

If ever he hoped to finish his task, he must work slowly and calmly. With his back to the door, he rested for so long a time as a man might count five hundred. He breathed slowly and deeply with his eyes closed. Then he turned and began slowly to work the key back and forth, in and out. It fell from the lock. He reinserted it and after a few light manipulations, turned it carefully to the right. The bolt snapped back. He opened the door.

Within, all was dark. The cell seemed empty. In fact, he was about to close the door and pass on to the next cell, when he detected a slight movement in the corner. He entered cautiously and threw his light in that direction. Something—a woman—sat bolt upright watching him as one might watch a vision. He moved straight forward and when within two feet paused, his heart leaping to his throat, his hand grown so weak that he dropped the lantern.

"Jo!" he gasped tremblingly, still doubting his own senses.

"David. You—you came!"

He moved forward, arms outstretched, half fearing she would vanish.



CHAPTER XVII

'Twixt Cup and Lip

He took her in his arms and she lay there very quietly, her head upon his shoulder, in the lethargy of exhaustion. She clasped her hands about his neck as a very tired child would do. The curve of her cheek lay near his lips and, though he yearned to do so, he would not kiss it. He did not speak to her, but was satisfied to hold her there in silence. The feel of her heart beating against his, the warmth of her breath as it brushed his bare throat, the perfume of her hair—those things were enough now. After the last long weeks of doubt, after the last day of gruelling fear, after the terror of the last half hour, such things as these were soul-satisfying. So he allowed himself to stand a few minutes there in this dark cell which to him had become suddenly fairer than any garden. Then he spoke softly to her:

"Come," he said, "we will go out into the sunshine now."

She raised her head, looking at him through half-closed eyes.

"I—I don't want to move, David."

He unclasped the hands from about his neck and, placing an arm about her waist, led her slowly out into the corridor. She followed his guidance, resting her weight upon him. And he who had come into this foul place in terror and despair walked out in a dizzy bewilderment of joy. As he passed the open door of Sorez' cell he hesitated. The evil prompting of his heart was to pass by this man—so to let him go forever out of his life. He had but to move on. He could find a refuge for the girl where she would be safe from this influence, but this would not be possible if he stopped to take Sorez with them. Once the girl knew the man was alive and in this condition her sympathies would be so aroused that she would never desert him. Wilson knew that he must decide instantly. To leave that prison without him was to leave him to his death. He turned towards the cell door; he had promised.

The man had evidently recovered his strength somewhat, for he sat upon the edge of the wooden bunk staring about him. He was alone in the cell—the Priest was gone! On the whole, Wilson was glad of this. He felt the better for not having the burden of his death, however richly it was deserved, upon his hands. The girl apparently was still in too much of a daze to recognize Sorez. Wilson spoke to him.

"Can you walk?"

"God," he cried. "Who are you? You speak English!"

Wilson repeated his question impatiently.

"If you can walk, follow me and I'll take you out of this hole."

The man tottered to his feet, groping with his hand along the wall.

"Here," said Wilson, overcoming a shrinking repugnance he now felt for the man, "take my arm."

Sorez grabbed it and with this much help was able to get along. And so, with the girl he loved upon one arm and the man he hated upon the other, Wilson made his way along the slippery subterranean galleries. He was practically carrying them both, but the lightness of the one almost made up for the burden of the other. The only thing for which he prayed was that none of those whimpering things he had loosed from their cells should cross his path. This was granted; for all he saw or heard he might have been treading the catacombs.

When he came again into the sunlight he was blinded for a second, while the other two clapped their hands over their eyes, suffering for quite a few moments intense pain. Except for being a bit pale, the girl did not look badly. Her hair had become loosened and her gown begrimed, but Wilson still saw her as she was that night when she lay curled up asleep in the big chair. As for Sorez, whether it was the pain of the torture or what, his hair, which before was an iron gray, had turned almost white.

The three made their way across the courtyard and again into the palace. He heard noise and confusion on the floors above. The halls were rank with the smell of powder. As they went on they found the floor covered with splinters, and on either side saw the panels rent and torn as though by a huge iron claw. There was still hoarse shouting and the occasional snap of a pistol above, which showed that Stubbs had not yet succeeded in controlling the men.

He had no idea as to where it was possible to take the girl and Sorez, but he hoped that he might come upon a room in the palace here where it would be safe to leave them until it was possible to get out into the city. Perhaps, too, if he reached the entrance, he might find Stubbs. Sorez was beginning to weigh heavily upon his arm, and he resented having to sacrifice to him any of the strength he needed for the girl. So he staggered on to the very room where a short while before he had fought for his life. But here he was checked by a noise from without—cheering as from the advance of several hundred men. Was it possible that reenforcements had arrived for the government? If so, this meant immediate danger. They would exact vengeance swiftly and surely upon any man known to be associated with the revolution. This would leave the girl in as bad a plight as that from which he had just rescued her. He shook off Sorez and, picking up the girl, started into the small anteroom; but before he was out of sight the first of the soldiers had sprung up the steps. With an oath three of the men seized him and drew him back, the girl still in his arms, to the door. Jo roused herself and struggled to her feet, facing the strange soldiers without a sign of fear. Wilson reached his holster, but the girl checked his hand, realizing, even in her torpid condition, the uselessness of it. In a minute others flocked up the stairs and around them with noisy demonstration, and soon, following these, the main body of the regiment with a snappy gray-haired officer at their head. The crowd, save for the two guards, gave way from before the trio and left them confronting their leader. By some description of Danbury's or by instinct, Wilson recognized him as none other than Otaballo. This then was the main body of the Revolutionists! Before he had time to speak Wilson saw that his own identity was beginning to dawn on Otaballo. He stepped forward and spoke the single word:

"Americans?"

The effect was magical. The soldiers drew back to respectful attention.

"Americans," answered Wilson.

The general spoke in broken English.

"How came you here?"

"I am with Danbury," answered Wilson. "The girl and the man were in the dungeons below."

"Ah! These are the two captured by the—the late government?"

"Yes. I would like shelter for the girl. She is very weak."

"Dios! you shall have refuge at once."

He turned to one of his lieutenants and in Spanish gave his command.

"In the name of the Queen seize the house opposite."

He turned back to Wilson.

"I will leave you five men; is that enough?"

"Thanks."

Otaballo at the head of his men proceeded to sterner business, throwing out guards through the palace and making the victory secure.