By ten o'clock the sounds of battle had swelled to a deeper, steadier roar, and refugees arriving brought various and fragmentary stories of the fighting. From this hodge-podge of misinformation, however, Webster decided that Ricardo's troops were forcing the issue with vim and determination, and since the most furious fighting was now well in toward the heart of the city, it seemed reasonable to presume the struggle was for possession of the arsenal and palace.

At noon the deep diapason of conflict began to slacken; by one o'clock it had dwindled considerably, and at two o'clock Webster, gazing anxiously cityward, observed Leber's launch coming rapidly out from shore. At the wheel stood Don Juan CafetÉro; as the launch shot in under the vessel's side he looked up, searching for Webster's face among the curious throng that lined the rail.

“Faugh-a-ballagh!” he shrieked. “We've got the divils cornered now. 'Twill be over two hours hince.”

“Who has won?” a voice called, and another, evidently a humourist and a shrewd judge of human nature, replied: “Why ask foolish questions? The rebels, of course. That fellow's Irish and the Irish are born rebels. Look at the scoundrel. He's black with gun-grease and burned powder where he isn't red with blood. The butcher!”

Don Juan tied up the launch at the gangway and leaped up the ladder, three steps at a time. “Glory be to God,” he panted and hurled himself into Webster's arms. “I was in it! I was. I got back in time to catch up wit' the lads at the warehouse an' they were the fine, fightin' divils, I'll gamble you. Och, 'twas a grrand bit av a fight—whilst it lasted. They put me in the motor-thruck, loadin' the belts wit' ca'tridges as fast as the gunners imptied thim, but faith they couldn't keep me there. I got into the heart av the scrimmage in the yard av the arsenal an' faith 'twas well for that little Docthor Pacheco I did. 'Twas wurrk to me likin'. I'd a machete——”

“You bloodthirsty scoundrel!” Webster shook the war-mad son of Erin. “I told you not to mix in it, but to hang around on the fringe of the fight, and bring us early news. Suppose you'd been killed? Who would have come for us then? Didn't I tell you we had a dinner engagement in the palace?”

“Me on the fringes av a fight,” sputtered Don Juan, amazed and outraged. “Take shame for yerself, sor. There was niver the likes av me hung around the fringes av a fight, an' well ye know it.”

“I'm amazed that you even remembered your instructions,” Webster rasped at him.

“Sure, our division had cl'aned up nicely an' I had nothin' else to do, God bless ye. They were besiegin' the palace whin I left, an' small chance av takin' it for a couple av hours; what fightin' there was on the outside was shtreet shootin'—an' not to me likin'.”

“Is it quite safe to bring Miss Ruey ashore, John?”

“'Tis safe enough at the Hotel Mateo. We have the city for half a mile beyant, in the rear av them—an' they're not fightin' to get to the bay. The Guards an' some av the Fifteenth Infanthry regimint are in the palace an' the cuartel close by, an' thim that we failed to get in the arsenal have j'ined thim. But the bulk av the Sarros army is thryin' to break t'rough to the south an' west, to get to the hills. D'ye mind the spur thrack that runs in a semi-cirrcle around the city? Well, thin, the rebels are behint the embankmint, takin' it aisy. Have no worry, sor. Whin we've took the palace we'll move on an' dhrive the vagÀbones from behint up to that railroad embankmint, where Gineral Ruey can bid them the time av day.”

Webster turned to Dolores. “Do you wish to go ashore?”

She nodded, her flashing eyes bent in admiration upon the gory, grimy Don Juan CafetÉro, for she was half Irish, and in that amazing meeting she knew the outcast for one of her blood. “I think my brother will sleep in his father's old room to-night,” she murmured softly. “And I would sleep in mine.”

They followed Don Juan down the gangway to the launch and sped back to the city. The door of Leber's warehouse stood wide open; within was a litter of greasy rags and broken packing cases, with Leber, quite mystified, sitting on a keg of nails and staring curiously at it all.

Guided by Don Juan CafetÉro, Webster and Dolores passed on up the Calle San Rosario. Occasionally a bullet, fired two or three miles to the west, droned lazily overhead or dropped with a sharp metallic sound on the corrugated-iron roofs of a building. At the hotel the proprietor alone was in evidence, seated behind the desk smoking in profound indifference.

In response to Webster's eager inquiries for the latest news from the front, the placid fellow shrugged and murmured: “Quien sabe?” Evidently for him such stirring scenes had long since lost their novelty; the bloom was off the peach, as it were.

Webster went upstairs and helped himself to another automatic and several spare clips of shells which he had left in his trunk. On his return to the lobby, Dolores saw what a very near sighted person, indeed, would have seen—to wit: that he was not pleased to remain in the hotel and with the spirit of adventure strong within him was desirous of progressing still farther toward the firing, in the hope of eliciting some favourable news as to the progress of the fight. She realized, however, that he would do his duty and remain with her in the hotel; so she said gaily:

“Suppose we walk out a little farther, Caliph. Many of the side streets will be as safe and peaceful as one could desire, and if warfare should develop in our vicinity we can step into some house.”

“I do not like to have you run the slightest risk——” he began, but she pooh-poohed him into silence, took him by the arm with a great air of camaraderie, and declared they should go forth to adventure—but cautiously.

Webster glanced at Don Juan. “We can go a half or three quarters av a mile out the Calle San Rosario, sor,” the Irishman answered. “After that 'twill not be a pleasant sight for the young leddy—an' there may be some shootin'. Squads av the governmint throops took refuge in the houses an' took to snipin'. 'Twill be shlow wurrk roundin' the last av thim up. Even afther the fight is over, there'll be scatterin' shootin' scrapes all av the night long, I'm thinkin'.”

“At the slightest danger we'll turn back,” Webster announced, and with Don Juan CafetÉro scouting the way a block in advance they progressed slowly toward the centre of the disturbance.

Soon they passed a horse dead in the middle of the street; a little farther on one of the machine-gun company, a lank Texan, sat on the curb rolling a cigarette with his left hand. He had a bullet through his right shoulder and another through the calf of his left leg and had received no first aid attention; the flies were bothering him considerably and he was cursing softly and fluently, like the ex-mule-skinner he was.

Farther on another white invader lay face down in the gutter; for him the fight had ended almost ere it had begun. In the next block half a dozen sandal-footed Sobranteans, in the blue and red-trimmed uniform of the Guardia Civil, lay spawled in uncouth attitudes, where the first blast of a machine gun had caught them as they rushed out of the police station to repel the advancing mercenaries.

Seeing that the main street of the city would assume even a more grisly aspect the longer they followed it, Don Juan led Webster and Dolores a couple of blocks down a cross-street and turned out into the Calle de Hernandez, parallel to the Calle San Rosario. There had been no shooting in this street, apparently; as they proceeded not even a stray bullet whined down the silent calle.

Four blocks from the government palace, however, they found the narrow sidewalks of this quiet street lined with wounded from both sides, with a doctor and half a dozen of Ricardo's hired fighters ministering to them; as they threaded their way between the recumbent figures they came upon Mother Jenks, brandy bottle and glass in hand, “doing her bit.”

“Hah! So here you are, my lamb,” she greeted Dolores. “Right-o. Just where yer ought to be, Gor' bless yer sweet face. Let these poor misfortunate lads see that the sister o' the new president ain't too proud to care for 'em. 'Ere, lass. 'Old up the 'ead o' this young cockerel with the 'ole in 'is neck. 'Ere, lad. Tyke a brace now! 'Ere's some o' your own people, not a lot o' bloomin' yeller-bellies, come to put something else in yer neck—somethink that'll stimulate yer.”

The “young cockerel,” a blond youth of scarce twenty summers, twisted his head and grinned up at Dolores as she knelt beside him to lift him up. “Here, here, sister,” he mumbled, “you'll get that white dress dirty. Never mind me. It's just a flesh wound, only my neck has got stiff and I'm weak from loss of blood.”

Mother Jenks winked at Webster as she set a glass of brandy to the stricken adventurer's lips. “Give me a bit o' the white meat, as my sainted 'Enery used to s'y,” she murmured comically.

Dolores looked up at Webster. “I'll stay here,” she said simply. “I've found a job helping Mother Jenks. You and Don Juan may run along if you wish. I know you're as curious as children.”

They were. It would have been impossible for any man with red corpuscles in his blood to harken to the shooting and shouts only three city blocks distant without yearning to see the fight itself.

“I'll return in fifteen minutes, at the latest,” he promised her, and with Don Juan CafetÉro, who had helped himself to a rifle and bayonet from one of the wounded, he turned the corner into the next street and started back toward the Calie San Rosario, which they followed west through a block plentifully sprinkled with the dead of both factions.

Don Juan led the way through an alley in the rear of the Catedral de la Santa Cruz to the door of the sacristy; as he placed his hand on the latch three rifle bullets struck around them, showering them with fragments of falling adobe.

“There's a house party in the neighbourhood,” yelled Don Juan and darted into the church, with Webster at his heels, just in time to escape another fusillade. They walked through the sacristy and passed through a door into the great cathedral, with its high, carved, Gothic-arched ceiling. Through the thick closed doors of the main entrance, lost in the dimness of space out in front, the sounds of the battle half a block away seemed very distant, indeed.

They passed the altar and Don Juan genuflected and crossed himself reverently. “I'll be afther makin' me confession,” he whispered to Webster. “Wait for me, sor.”

He leaned his rifle against the altar railing, crossed the church and touched lightly on the shoulder a monk kneeling in prayer before the altar of the Virgin; the latter bent his head while Don Juan whispered; then he rose and both went into the confessional, while Webster found a bench along the wall and waited.

Presently Don Juan came forth, knelt on the red-tiled floor and prayed—something, Webster suspected, he had not done for quite a while. And when he had finished his supplication and procured his rifle, Webster joined him, the monk unbolted the door and from the quiet of the house of God they passed out into the street and the tumult of hell.

“I've been dost to death this day,” Don Juan explained, “an' the day is not done. Be the same token, 'tis long since I'd made me last confession; sure, until you picked me out av the mire, sor, 'tis little thought I had for the hereafter.”

They were standing on the steps of the cathedral as Don Juan spoke, and from their place they could see a dozen or more of Ricardo's hired fighters crouched under the shelter of the palace walls across the street. “I think we'll be safer there,” Webster cried, as a couple of bullets struck the stone steps at their feet and ricocheted against the cathedral door. “That rifle of yours is making you a marked man, Don Juan.”

They ran across the street and joined the men under the palace wall.

“What's this?” Don Juan demanded briskly. “Have ye not shmoked thim out yet?”

“Noddings doing,” a young German answered. “Der chief has sent word dot we shall not artillery use on der balace. Men all aroundt it we haf, mit a machine gun commanding each gate; most of der poys have chust moved out west in der rear of der government troops.”

“Then,” Don Juan declared with conviction, “there'll be no fighting here to speak av, until later.”

“Der is blenty of choy hunting snipers, mein freund. Der houses hereabouts vos filled mit dem.”

“I'll have no cat fights in mine,” Don Juan retorted. “Come wit' me, sor, an' we'll be in at the death out beyant at the railroad embankmint.”

“Too late,” Webster answered, for on the instant to the west the crackle of rifle and machine-gun fire interluded with the staccato barks of a Maxim-Vickers broke out, swelling almost immediately to a steady outpouring of sound. “We'll stay here where we're safe for the finals. When General Ruey has cleaned up out there he'll come here to take command.”

For half an hour the sounds of a brisk engagement to the west did not slacken; then with disconcerting suddenness the uproar died away fully 50 per cent.

“They're going in with the bayonet and machetes,” somebody who knew remarked laconically. “Wait and you'll hear the cheering.”

They waited fully ten minutes, but presently, as the firing gradually died away, they heard it, faint and indistinguishable at first, but gradually coming nearer. And presently the trapped men in the palace heard it, too. “Viva Ruey! Viva! Viva Ruey!”

“All over but the shouting,” Don Juan remarked disgustedly. “The lads in the palace will surrindher now. Sure Gineral Ruey was right afther all. For why should he shoot holes in the house he's goin' to live in, an' where, be the same token, he gives a dinner party this night?”

“I'm glad the end is in sight,” Webster replied. “We have no interest in this revolution, John, and it isn't up to us to horn in on the play; yet if it went against the Ruey faction, I fear we'd be forced into active service in spite of ourselves. There is such a thing as fighting to save one's skin, you know.”

Don Juan laughed pleasurably. “What a shame we missed the row out beyant at the railroad em-bankmint,” he declared.

“I wish you'd kept out of it, Don Juan. What business had you in the fight at the cuartd? Suppose you'd been killed?”

“Small loss!” Don Juan retorted.

“I should have mourned you nevertheless, John.”

“Would you that same?” Don Juan's buttermilk eyes lighted with affection and pleasure. “Would it put a pang in the heart of you, sor, to see me stretched?”

“Yes, it would, John. You're a wild, impulsive, lunatic, worthless Irishman, but there's a broad vein of pay-ore in you, and I want you to live until I can develop it. When Mr. Geary returns to operate the mine, he'll need a foreman he can trust.”

“And do you trust me, sor?”

“I do indeed, John. By the way, you never gave me your word of honour to cut out red liquor for keeps. Up till to-day I've had to watch you—and I don't want to do that. It isn't dignified for either of us, and from to-day on you must be a man or a mouse. If you prove yourself a man, I want you in my business; if you prove yourself a mouse, somebody else may have you. How about you, John? The cantinas will be open to-night, and firewater will be free to the soldiers of the new republic. Must I watch you to-night?”

Don Juan shook his reckless red head. “I'll never let a drop of liquor cross my lips without your permission, sor,” he promised simply. “I am the man and you are the master.”

“We'll shake hands on that!” After the western habit of validating all verbal agreements with a handshake, Webster thrust his hard hand out to his man, who took it in both of his and held it for half a minute. He wanted to speak, but couldn't; he could only bow his head as his eyes clouded with the tears of his appreciation. “Ah, sor,” he blurted presently, “I'd die for ye an' welcome the chanst.”

A wild yell of alarm broke out in the next block, at the north gate of the palace; there was a sudden flurry of rifle fire and cries of “Here they come! Stop them! Stop them! They're breaking out!”

Without awaiting orders the hired fighters along the wall—some fifteen of them—leaped out into the street, forming a skirmish line, just as a troop of cavalry, with drawn sabres, swept around the corner and charged upon the devoted little line. “Sarros must be thryin' to make his get-away,” Don Juan CafetÉro remarked coolly, and emptied a saddle. “They threw open the big palace gate, an' the Guards are clearin' a way for him to the bay.” He emptied another saddle.

In the meantime Ricardo's fire-eaters had not been idle. The instant the Guards turned into the street a deadly magazine fire had been opened on them. They had already suffered heavily winning through the gate and past the besiegers in front of it, but once they turned the corner into the next street they had the fire of but a handful of men to contend with. Nevertheless it was sufficiently deadly. Many of the horses in the front rank went down with their riders, forcing the maddened animals behind to clear their carcasses by leaping over them, which some did. Many, however, tripped and stumbled in their wild gallop, spilling their riders.

“Stay by the wall, you madman,” Webster ordered. “There'll be enough left to ride down those men in the street and sabre them!”

And there were! They died to a man, and the sadly depleted troop of Guards galloped, on, leaving Don Juan and Webster unscathed on the sidewalk, the only two living men unhurt in that shambles.

Not for long, however, did they have the street to themselves. Around the corner of the palace wall a limousine, with the curtains drawn, swung on two wheels, skidded, struck the carcass of a horse and turned over, catapulting the chauffeur into the middle of the street.

“Sarros!” shrieked Don Juan and ran to the overturned vehicle. It was quite empty.

“Bully boy, Senor Sarros,” Webster laughed. “He's turned À pretty trick, hasn't he? Sent his Guards out to hack a pathway for an empty limousine! That means he's hoping to draw the watchers from the other gate!”

But Don Juan CafetÉro was not listening; he was running at top speed for the south gate of the palace grounds—and Webster followed.

As they swung into the street upon which this south gate opened, Webster saw that it was deserted of all save the dead, for Sarros's clever ruse had worked well and had had the effect of arousing the curiosity of his enemies as to the cause of the uproar at the north gate, in consequence of which they had all scurried around the block to see what they could see, thus according Sarros the thing he desired most—a fighting chance and a half minute to get through the gate and headed for the steamship landing without interference.

Webster and Don Juan came abreast the high, barred gate in the thick, twenty-foot masonry wall as the barrier swung back and a man, in civilian clothes, thundered through on a magnificent bay thoroughbred.

“That's him. Shtop the divil!” screamed Don Juan. “They'll do the decent thing be me if I take him alive.”

To Webster, who had acquired the art of snap shooting while killing time in many a lonely camp, the bay charger offered an easy mark. “Hate to down that beautiful animal,” he remarked—and pulled away.

The horse leaped into the air and came down stifflegged; Sarros spurred it cruelly, and the gallant beast strove to gather itself into its stride, staggered and sank to its knees, as with a wild Irish yell Don Juan CafetÉro reached the dictator's side.

Sarros drew a revolver, but before he could use it Don Juan tapped him smartly over the head with his rifle barrel, and the man toppled inertly to the ground beside his dying horse.

“More power to ye, sor,” Don Juan called cheerily and turned to receive Webster's approval.

What he saw paralyzed him for an instant. Webster was standing beside the gate, firing into a dozen of Sarros's soldiery who were pouring out of a house just across the street, where for an hour they had crouched unseen and unheard by the Ruey men at the gate. They were practically out of ammunition and had merely been awaiting a favourable opportunity to escape before the rebels should enter the city in force and the house-to-house search for snipers should begin. They had been about to emerge and beat a hasty retreat, when Sarros rode out at the gate, and with a rush they followed, gaining the sidewalk in time to be witnesses to the dictator's downfall.

For a moment they had paused, huddled on the sidewalk behind their officer, who, turning to scout the street up and down, beheld John Stuart Webster standing by the gate with an automatic in his hand. At the same instant Webster's attention had been attracted to the little band on the sidewalk; in their leader he recognized no less a personage than his late acquaintance, the fire-eating Captain JosÉ Benavides. Coincidently Benavides recognized Webster.

It was an awkward situation. Webster realized the issue was about to be decided, that if he would have it in his favour, he should waste not one split-second before killing the mercurial Benavides as the latter stood staring at him. It was not a question, now, of who should beat the other to the draw, for each had already filled his hand. It was a question, rather, as to who should recover first from his astonishment. If Benavides decided to let bygones be bygones and retreat without firing a shot, then Webster was quite willing to permit him to pass unmolested; indeed, such was his aversion to shooting any man, so earnestly did he hope the Sobrantean would consider that discretion was the better part of valour, that he resolved to inculcate that idea in the Hotspur.

“Captain Benavides,” he said suavely, “your cause is lost. If you care to escape aboard the steamer, I will see to it that you are not removed from her before she sails; if you care to surrender to me now, I give you my word of honour you will not be executed.”

Benavides might have had, and doubtless did have, his faults, but cowardice was not one of them. And he did have the ghost of a sense of humour. An evil smile flitted over his olive features.

“Without taking into consideration the bayonets at my back,” he replied, “it strikes me the odds are even now. And yet you patronize me.”

Webster was nettled. “I'd rather do that than kill you, Benavides,” he retorted. “Don't be a fool. Run along and sell your papers, and take your pitiful little sandal-footed brigands with you. Scat!”

Benavides's hand, holding his pistol, had been hanging loosely at his side. With his furious glance meeting Webster's unfalteringly, with the merest movement of his wrist and scarcely without movement of his forearm, he threw up his weapon and fired. Scarcely a fifth of a second had elapsed between the movement of his wrist and the pressure of his finger on the trigger; Webster, gazing steadily into the sombre eyes, had noted no hint of the man's intention, and was actually caught off his guard.

The bullet tore through his biceps, momentarily paralyzing him, and his automatic dropped clattering to the sidewalk; as he stooped and recovered it, Benavides fired again, creasing the top of his left shoulder. The Sobrantean took aim for a third and finishing shot, but when he pulled the trigger the hammer fell on a defective cartridge, which gave to John Stuart Webster all the advantage he craved. He planted a bullet in Benavides's abdomen with his first shot, blew out the duelist's brains with his second, and whirled to meet the charge of the little sandal-footed soldados, who, seeing their leader fallen, had without an instant's hesitation and apparently by mutual consent decided to avenge him.

Webster backed dazedly toward the wall, firing as he did so, but he was too dizzy to shoot effectively, and the semicircle of bayonets closed in on his front. He had wounded three men without stopping them; a second more, and their long, eighteen-inch bayonets would have been in his vitals, when into the midst of the mÊlÉe, from the rear, dashed Don Juan CafetÉro, shrieking like a fiend and swinging his rifle, which he held grasped by the barrel.

Webster saw a bayonet lunging toward him. He lifted his leg and caught the point on his boot-heel while with his last cartridge he killed the man behind the bayonet, just as the latter's next-rank man thrust straight and true in under the American's left arm, while a third man jabbed at his stomach and got the bayonet home in his hip. These two thrusts, delivered almost simultaneously, by their impact carried their victim backward against the wall, against which his head collided with a smart thud. He fell forward on his face; before his assailants could draw back for a finishing thrust, in case the gringo needed it, which they doubted, Don Juan CafetÉro had brained them both.

Standing above the man he loved, with the latter's body between his outspread legs, Don Juan CafetÉro stood for the final accounting, his buttermilk eyes gleaming hatred and war-madness, his lips drawn back from his snaggle teeth, his breast rising and falling as they closed in around him. For a few seconds he was visible swinging his rifle like a flail, magnificent, unterrified—and then a bayonet slipped in under his guard. It was the end.

With a final great effort that used up the last strength in his drink-corroded muscles he hurled his rifle into the midst of his four remaining enemies, before he swayed and toppled full length on top of Webster, shielding with his poor body the man who had fanned to flame the dying ember of manhood in the wreck that drink and the devil had cast up on the Caribbean coast.

For Don Juan CafetÉro it had been a long, joyous, thirsty day, but at last the day was done. And in order to make certain, a soldado jabbed him once more through the vitals before he fled with the other survivors.