sirocco of dust, where the red flame of death was leaping from pistol and gun.
Others came after them like the surge of released waters. It was a shout that ran the breadth of the pueblo, startling old men as they turned in their beds.
Over against the wall, Gabriel Henderson rose out of the misfortune of his fall, the gun of a slain soldier in his hands. His pistols were lost, his horse was groaning with its last breath; the dust was thick around him as fog on the hills. A moment, a little gleam. Helena's white dress fluttered, her hand was on his arm, pressing a pistol into his hand. Out of the fog of dust a soldier leaped, his blood-red bayonet darting like a serpent's tongue.
Thank God for the eyes of love, that could see the flung pistol fall against the wall; thank God for the quick heart of love that could find its way to his side, even through the obscuration of death. The soldier's bayonet was in the dust, his comrades' feet sounded as they ran.
Henderson had left the extra horse tied behind the corral of Felipe's friend, afraid that his charge into the plaza might be impeded by its tugging. His own animal, upon which he had relied to carry both Helena and himself out of the plaza, if fortune should give him the passage, was dead.
Felipe was at the cannon, for what sane purpose no man could tell, dismounted, master of the situation for the moment, but peril before him, where
