THROUGHOUT the night there was sporadic firing here and there in the city, as the Ruey followers relentlessly hunted down the isolated detachment of Government troops which had escaped annihilation and capture in the final rout and fallen back on the city, where, concealing themselves according to their nature and inclination, they indulged in more or less sniping from windows and the roofs of buildings. The practice of taking no prisoners was an old one in Sobrante, and few presidents had done more than Sarros to keep that custom alive; ergo, firm in the conviction that to surrender was tantamount to facing a firing squad at daylight, the majority of these stragglers, with consummate courage, fought to the death.

The capture of Buenaventura was alone sufficient to insure a brief revolution, but the capture of Sarros was ample guarantee that the resistance to the new order of things was already at an end. However, Ricardo Ruey felt that the prompt execution of Sarros would be an added guarantee of peace by effectually discouraging any opposition to the rebel cause in the outlying districts, where a few isolated garrisons still remained in ignorance of the momentous events being enacted in the capital. For the time being, Ricardo was master of life and death in Sobrante, and all of his advisers and supporters agreed with him that a so-called trial of the ex-dictator would be a rather useless affair. His life was forfeit a hundred times for murder and treason, and to be ponderous over his elimination would savour of mockery. Accordingly, at midnight, a priest entered the room in the arsenal where Sarros was confined, and shrived him. Throughout the night the priest remained with him, and when that early morning march to the cemetery commenced, he walked beside Sarros, repeating the prayers for the dying.

Upon reaching the cemetery there was a slight wait until a carriage drove up and discharged Ricardo Ruey and Mother Jenks. The sergeant in command of the squad saluted and was briefly ordered to proceed with the matter in hand; whereupon he turned to Sarros, who with the customary sang froid of his kind upon such occasions was calmly smoking, and bowed deprecatingly. Sarros actually smiled upon him. “Adios, amigos” he murmured. Then, as an afterthought and probably because he was sufficient of an egoist to desire to appear a martyr, he added heroically: “I die for my country. May God have mercy on my enemies.”

“If you'd cared to play a gentleman's game, you blighter, you might 'ave lived for your bally country,” Mother Jenks reminded him in English. “Wonder if the beggar 'll wilt or will 'e go through smilin' like my sainted 'Enery on the syme spot.”

She need not have worried. It requires a strong man to be dictator of a Roman-candle republic for fifteen years, and whatever his sins of omission or commission, Sarros did not lack animal courage. Alone and unattended he limped away among the graves to the wall on the other side of the cemetery and placed his back against it, negligently in the attitude of a devil-may-care fellow without a worry in life. The sergeant waited respectfully until Sarros had finished his cigarette; when he tossed it away and straightened to attention, the sergeant knew he was ready to die. At his command there was a sudden rattle of bolts as the cartridges slid from the magazines into the breeches; there followed a momentary halt, another command; the squad was aiming when Ricardo Ruey called sharply:

“Sergeant, do not give the order to fire.”

The rifles were lowered and the men gazed wonderingly at Ricardo. “He's too brave,” Ricardo complained. “Damn him, I can't kill him as I would a mad-dog. I've got to give him a chance.” The sergeant raised his brows expressively. Ah, the ley fuga, that popular form of execution where the prisoner is given a running chance, and the firing-squad practises wing shooting If the prisoner manages, miraculously, to escape, he is not pursued!

A doubt, however, crossed the sergeant's mind. “But, my general,” he expostulated, “Senor Sarros cannot accept the ley fuga. He is very lame. That is not giving him the chance your Excellency desires he should have.”

“I wasn't thinking of that,” Ricardo replied. “I was thinking I'm killing him without a fair trial for the reason that he's so infernally ripe for the gallows that a trial would have been a joke. Nevertheless, I am really killing him because he killed my father—and that is scarcely fair. My father was a gentleman. Sergeant, is your pistol loaded?”

“Yes, General.”

“Give it to Senor Sarros.”

As the sergeant started forward to comply Ricardo drew his own service revolver and then motioned Mother Jenks and the firing-squad to stand aside while he crossed to the centre of the cemetery. “Sarros,” he called, “I am going to let God decide which one of us shall live. When the sergeant gives the command to fire, I shall open fire on you, and you are free to do the same to me. Sergeant, if he kills me and escapes unhurt, my orders are to escort him to the bay in my carriage and put him safely aboard the steamer.”

Mother Jenks sat down on a tombstone. “Gord's truth!” she gasped, “but there's a rare plucked 'un.” Aloud she croaked: “Don't be a bally ass, sir.”

“Silence!” he commanded.

The sergeant handed Sarros the revolver. “You heard what I said?” Ricardo called.

Sarros bowed gravely.

“You understand your orders, Sergeant?”

“Yes, General.”

“Very well. Proceed. If this prisoner fires before you give the word, have your squad riddle him.” The sergeant backed away and gazed owlishly from the prisoner to his captor. “Ready!” he called. Both revolvers came up. “Fire!” he shouted, and the two shots were discharged simultaneously. Ricardo's cap flew off his head, but he remained standing, while Sarros staggered back against the wall and there recovering himself gamely, fired again. He scored a clean miss, and Ricardo's gun barked three times; Sarros sprawled on his face, rose to his knees, raised his pistol halfway, fired into the sky and slid forward on his face. Ricardo stood beside the body until the sergeant approached and stood to attention, his attitude saying:

“It is over. What next, General?”

“Take the squad back to the arsenal, Sergeant,” Ricardo ordered him coolly, and walked back to recover his uniform cap. He was smiling as he ran his finger through a gaping hole in the upper half of the crown.

“Well, Mrs. Jenks,” he announced when he rejoined the old lady, “that was better than executing him with a firing-squad. I gave him a square deal. Now his friends can never say that I murdered him.” He extended his hand to help Mother Jenks to her feet. She stood erect and felt again that queer swelling of the heart, the old feeling of suffocation.

“Steady, lass!” she mumbled. “'Old on to me, sir. It's my bally haneurism. Gor'—I'm—chokin'——”

He caught her in his arms as she lurched toward him. Her face was purple, and in her eyes there was a queer fierce light that went out suddenly, leaving them dull and glazed. When she commenced to sag in his arms, he eased her gently to the ground and laid her on her back in the grass.

“The nipper's safe, 'Enery,” he heard her murmur. “I've raised 'er a lydy, s'elp me—she's back where—you found 'er— 'Enery——”

She quivered, and the light came creeping back into her eyes before it faded forever. “Comin', 'Enery—darlin',” she whispered; and then the soul of Mother Jenks, who had a code and lived up to it (which is more than the majority of us do), had departed upon the ultimate journey. Ricardo gazed down on the hard old mouth, softened now by a little half-smile of mingled yearning and gladness: “What a wonderful soul you had,” he murmured, and kissed her.

In the end she slept in the niche in the wall of the Catedral de la Vera Cruz, beside her sainted 'Enery.