- morrow. Come, I will wait for you without." So saying,
Felton turns on his heel.
Van Zandt regards him with a look in which suspicion is mingled with a trace of admiration for his sang froid.
"You will attempt no treachery?" he says, sternly.
"I tell you, sir, I am not a coward," answers Felton, haughtily.
"That he is not," mutters the soldier with the scarred forehead, and he adds, as if addressing the newspaper in his hand: "This is a devilish unfortunate affair. I must have a hand in it. Hello! Was not that a woman's scream?" He rises and, throwing open the door leading to the rear of the cafe, steps out upon the veranda. An instant later he dashes the door shut with an ejaculation of amazement.
Standing at the further end of the veranda, terror depicted in her colorless cheeks, is Louise Hathaway. A dozen feet from her is one of the troopers, who has strolled out upon the veranda, and, while much the worse for liquor, has plainly insulted the American girl. When the new-comer arrives on the scene, he sees the caballero wiping the blood from a long, deep scratch across his rage-contorted face. Between insulter and insulted Cyrus Felton interposes a feeble barrier.
With a muttered malediction the baffled Spaniard turns and re-enters the cafe, followed by the scarred soldier, whose timely arrival has doubtless saved Miss Hathaway from further affront.
"Jove! I shall have my hands full for a few minutes," that individual soliloquizes. "Ah, one moment," as Van Zandt attempts to brush by him. "You have some friends out here, senor."
"Well?" demands Van Zandt, with a stare.
"Get them away at once, or these devils in here may make it hot for them."
"I do not understand."
"You have no time to listen to a lengthy explanation. Do as I direct. Send your friends to the consul's and have them avoid the main road. There is a path through the garden, and beyond that a trail down the hillside to
