University of Virginia Library

13. XIII

THE President's travelling carriage was a double-seated diligence covered with heavy hoods and with places on the box for two men. Only one of the coachmen, the same man who had driven the State carriage from the review, had remained at the stables. As he knew the roads to Los Bocos, Clay ordered him up to the driver's seat, and MacWilliams climbed into the place beside him after first storing three rifles under the lap-robe.

Hope pulled open the leather curtains of the carriage and found Madame Alvarez where the men had laid her upon the cushions, weak and hysterical. The girl crept in beside her, and lifting her in her arms, rested the older woman's head against her shoulder, and soothed and comforted her with tenderness and sympathy.

Clay stopped with his foot in the stirrup and looked up anxiously at Langham who was already in the saddle.

“Is there no possible way of getting Hope out of this and back to the Palms?” he asked.

“No, it's too late. This is the only way now.” Hope opened the leather curtains and looking out shook her head impatiently at Clay. “I wouldn't go now if there were another way,” she said. “I couldn't leave her like this.”

“You're delaying the game, Clay,” cried Langham, warningly, as he stuck his spurs into his pony's side.

The people in the diligence lurched forward as the horses felt the lash of the whip and strained against the harness, and then plunged ahead at a gallop on their long race to the sea. As they sped through the gardens, the stables and the trees hid them from the sight of those in the palace, and the turf, upon which the driver had turned the horses for greater safety, deadened the sound of their flight.

They found the gates of the botanical gardens already opened, and Clay, in the street outside, beckoning them on. Without waiting for the others the two outriders galloped ahead to the first cross street, looked up and down its length, and then, in evident concern at what they saw in the distance, motioned the driver to greater speed, and crossing the street signalled him to follow them. At the next corner Clay flung himself off his pony, and throwing the bridle to Langham, ran ahead into the cross street on foot, and after

a quick glance pointed down its length away from the heart of the city to the mountains.

The driver turned as Clay directed him, and when the man found that his face was fairly set toward the goal he lashed his horses recklessly through the narrow street, so that the murmur of the mob behind them grew perceptibly fainter at each leap forward.

The noise of the galloping hoofs brought women and children to the barred windows of the houses, but no men stepped into the road to stop their progress, and those few they met running in the direction of the palace hastened to get out of their way, and stood with their backs pressed against the walls of the narrow thoroughfare looking after them with wonder.

Even those who suspected their errand were helpless to detain them, for sooner than they could raise the hue and cry or formulate a plan of action, the carriage had passed and was disappearing in the distance, rocking from wheel to wheel like a ship in a gale. Two men who were so bold as to start to follow, stopped abruptly when they saw the outriders draw rein and turn in their saddles as though to await their coming.

Clay's mind was torn with doubts, and his nerves were drawn taut like the strings of a violin. Personal danger exhilarated him, but this

chance of harm to others who were helpless, except for him, depressed his spirit with anxiety. He experienced in his own mind all the nervous fears of a thief who sees an officer in every passing citizen, and at one moment he warned the driver to move more circumspectly, and so avert suspicion, and the next urged him into more desperate bursts of speed. In his fancy every cross street threatened an ambush, and as he cantered now before and now behind the carriage, he wished that he was a multitude of men who could encompass it entirely and hide it.

But the solid streets soon gave way to open places, and low mud cabins, where the horses' hoofs beat on a sun-baked road, and where the inhabitants sat lazily before the door in the fading light, with no knowledge of the changes that the day had wrought in the city, and with only a moment's curious interest in the hooded carriage, and the grim, white-faced foreigners who guarded it.

Clay turned his pony into a trot at Langham's side. His face was pale and drawn.

As the danger of immediate pursuit and capture grew less, the carriage had slackened its pace, and for some minutes the outriders galloped on together side by side in silence. But the same thought was in the mind of each, and when Langham

spoke it was as though he were continuing where he had but just been interrupted.

He laid his hand gently on Clay's arm. He did not turn his face toward him, and his eyes were still peering into the shadows before them. “Tell me?” he asked.

“He was coming up the stairs,” Clay answered. He spoke in so low a voice that Langham had to lean from his saddle to hear him. “They were close behind; but when they saw her they stopped and refused to go farther. I called to him to come away, but he would not understand. They killed him before he really understood what they meant to do. He was dead almost before I reached him. He died in my arms.” There was a long pause. “I wonder if he knows that?” Clay said.

Langham sat erect in the saddle again and drew a short breath. “I wish he could have known how he helped me,” he whispered, “how much just knowing him helped me.”

Clay bowed his head to the boy as though he were thanking him. “His was the gentlest soul I ever knew,” he said.

“That's what I wanted to say,” Langham answered. “We will let that be his epitaph,” and touching his spur to his horse he galloped on ahead and left Clay riding alone.

Langham had proceeded for nearly a mile when he saw the forest opening before them, and at the sight he gave a shout of relief, but almost at the same instant he pulled his pony back on his haunches and whirling him about, sprang back to the carriage with a cry of warning.

“There are soldiers ahead of us,” he cried. “Did you know it?” he demanded of the driver. “Did you lie to me? Turn back.”

“He can't turn back,” MacWilliams answered. “They have seen us. They are only the custom officers at the city limits. They know nothing. Go on.” He reached forward and catching the reins dragged the horses down into a walk. Then he handed the reins back to the driver with a shake of the head.

“If you know these roads as well as you say you do, you want to keep us out of the way of soldiers,” he said. “If we fall into a trap you'll be the first man shot on either side.”

A sentry strolled lazily out into the road dragging his gun after him by the bayonet, and raised his hand for them to halt. His captain followed him from the post-house throwing away a cigarette as he came, and saluted MacWilliams on the box and bowed to the two riders in the background. In his right hand he held one of the long iron rods with which the collectors of the city's taxes

were wont to pierce the bundles and packs, and even the carriage cushions of those who entered the city limits from the coast, and who might be suspected of smuggling.

“Whose carriage is this, and where is it going?” he asked.

As the speed of the diligence slackened, Hope put her head out of the curtains, and as she surveyed the soldier with apparent surprise, she turned to her brother.

“What does this mean?” she asked. “What are we waiting for?”

“We are going to the Hacienda of Señor Palácio,” MacWilliams said, in answer to the officer. “The driver thinks that this is the road, but I say we should have taken the one to the right.”

“No, this is the road to Señor Palácio's plantation,” the officer answered, “but you cannot leave the city without a pass signed by General Mendoza. That is the order we received this morning. Have you such a pass?”

“Certainly not,” Clay answered, warmly. “This is the carriage of an American, the president of the mines. His daughters are inside and on their way to visit the residence of Señor Palácio. They are foreigners—Americans. We are all foreigners, and we have a perfect right to leave the city

when we choose. You can only stop us when we enter it.”

The officer looked uncertainly from Clay to Hope and up at the driver on the box. His eyes fell upon the heavy brass mountings of the harness. They bore the arms of Olancho. He wheeled sharply and called to his men inside the post-house, and they stepped out from the veranda and spread themselves leisurely across the road.

“Ride him down, Clay,” Langham muttered, in a whisper. The officer did not understand the words, but he saw Clay gather the reins tighter in his hands and he stepped back quickly to the safety of the porch, and from that ground of vantage smiled pleasantly.

“Pardon,” he said, “there is no need for blows when one is rich enough to pay. A little something for myself and a drink for my brave fellows, and you can go where you please.”

“Damned brigands,” growled Langham, savagely.

“Not at all,” Clay answered. “He is an officer and a gentleman. I have no money with me,” he said, in Spanish, addressing the officer, “but between caballeros a word of honor is sufficient. I shall be returning this way to-morrow morning, and I will bring a few hundred sols from Señor

Palácio for you and your men; but if we are followed you will get nothing, and you must have forgotten in the mean time that you have seen us pass.”

There was a murmur inside the carriage, and Hope's face disapppeared{sic} from between the curtains to reappear again almost immediately. She beckoned to the officer with her hand, and the men saw that she held between her thumb and little finger a diamond ring of size and brilliancy. She moved it so that it flashed in the light of the guard lantern above the post-house.

“My sister tells me you shall be given this tomorrow morning,” Hope said, “if we are not followed.”

The man's eyes laughed with pleasure. He swept his sombrero to the ground.

“I am your servant, Señorita,” he said. “Gentlemen,” he cried, gayly, turning to Clay, “if you wish it, I will accompany you with my men. Yes, I will leave word that I have gone in the sudden pursuit of smugglers; or I will remain here as you wish, and send those who may follow back again.”

“You are most gracious, sir,” said Clay. “It is always a pleasure to meet with a gentleman and a philosopher. We prefer to travel without an escort, and remember, you have seen nothing and heard nothing.” He leaned from the saddle,

and touched the officer on the breast. “That ring is worth a king's ransom.”

“Or a president's,” muttered the man, smiling. “Let the American ladies pass,” he commanded.

The soldiers scattered as the whip fell, and the horses once more leaped forward, and as the carriage entered the forest, Clay looked back and saw the officer exhaling the smoke of a fresh cigarette, with the satisfaction of one who enjoys a clean conscience and a sense of duty well performed.

The road through the forest was narrow and uneven, and as the horses fell into a trot the men on horseback closed up together behind the carriage.

“Do you think that road-agent will keep his word?” Langham asked.

“Yes; he has nothing to win by telling the truth,” Clay answered. “He can say he saw a party of foreigners, Americans, driving in the direction of Palácio's coffee plantation. That lets him out, and in the morning he knows he can levy on us for the gate money. I am not so much afraid of being overtaken as I am that King may make a mistake and not get to Bocos on time. We ought to reach there, if the carriage holds together, by eleven. King should be there by eight o'clock, and the yacht ought to make the run to Truxillo in three hours. But we shall not

be able to get back to the city before five to-morrow morning. I suppose your family will be wild about Hope. We didn't know where she was when we sent the groom back to King.”

“Do you think that driver is taking us the right way?” Langham asked, after a pause.

“He'd better. He knows it well enough. He was through the last revolution, and carried messages from Los Bocos to the city on foot for two months. He has covered every trail on the way, and if he goes wrong he knows what will happen to him.”

“And Los Bocos—it is a village, isn't it, and the landing must be in sight of the Custom-house?”

“The village lies some distance back from the shore, and the only house on the beach is the Custom-house itself; but every one will be asleep by the time we get there, and it will take us only a minute to hand her into the launch. If there should be a guard there, King will have fixed them one way or another by the time we arrive. Anyhow, there is no need of looking for trouble that far ahead. There is enough to worry about in between. We haven't got there yet.”

The moon rose grandly a few minutes later, and flooded the forest with light so that the open places were as clear as day. It threw strange shadows across the trail, and turned the rocks and

fallen trees into figures of men crouching or standing upright with uplifted arms. They were so like to them that Clay and Langham flung their carbines to their shoulders again and again, and pointed them at some black object that turned as they advanced into wood or stone. From the forest they came to little streams and broad shallow rivers where the rocks in the fording places churned the water into white masses of foam, and the horses kicked up showers of spray as they made their way, slipping and stumbling, against the current. It was a silent pilgrim age, and never for a moment did the strain slacken or the men draw rein. Sometimes, as they hurried across a broad tableland, or skirted the edge of a precipice and looked down hundreds of feet below at the shining waters they had just forded, or up at the rocky points of the mountains before them, the beauty of the night overcame them and made them forget the significance of their journey.

They were not always alone, for they passed at intervals through sleeping villages of mud huts with thatched roofs, where the dogs ran yelping out to bark at them, and where the pine-knots, blazing on the clay ovens, burned cheerily in the moonlight. In the low lands where the fever lay, the mist rose above the level of their heads and enshrouded them in a curtain of fog, and the dew

fell heavily, penetrating their clothing and chilling their heated bodies so that the sweating horses moved in a lather of steam.

They had settled down into a steady gallop now, and ten or fifteen miles had been left behind them.

“We are making excellent time,” said Clay. “The village of San Lorenzo should lie beyond that ridge.” He drove up beside the driver and pointed with his whip. “Is not that San Lorenzo?” he asked.

“Yes, señor,” the man answered, “but I mean to drive around it by the old wagon trail. It is a large town, and people may be awake. You will be able to see it from the top of the next hill.”

The cavalcade stopped at the summit of the ridge and the men looked down into the silent village. It was like the others they had passed, with a few houses built round a square of grass that could hardly be recognized as a plaza, except for the church on its one side, and the huge wooden cross planted in its centre. From the top of the hill they could see that the greater number of the houses were in darkness, but in a large building of two stories lights were shining from every window.

“That is the comandáncia,” said the driver,

shaking his head. “They are still awake. It is a telegraph station.”

“Great Scott!” exclaimed MacWilliams. “We forgot the telegraph. They may have sent word to head us off already.”

“Nine o'clock is not so very late,” said Clay. “It may mean nothing.”

“We had better make sure, though,” MacWilliams answered, jumping to the ground. “Lend me your pony, Ted, and take my place. I'll run in there and dust around and see what's up. I'll join you on the other side of the town after you get back to the main road.”

“Wait a minute,” said Clay. “What do you mean to do?”

“I can't tell till I get there, but I'll try to find out how much they know. Don't you be afraid. I'll run fast enough if there's any sign of trouble. And if you come across a telegraph wire, cut it. The message may not have gone over yet.”

The two women in the carriage had parted the flaps of the hoods and were trying to hear what was being said, but could not understand, and Langham explained to them that they were about to make a slight detour to avoid San Lorenzo while MacWilliams was going into it to reconnoitre. He asked if they were comfortable, and assured them that the greater part of the ride was

over, and that there was a good road from San Lorenzo to the sea.

MacWilliams rode down into the village along the main trail, and threw his reins over a post in front of the comandáncia. He mounted boldly to the second floor of the building and stopped at the head of the stairs, in front of an open door. There were three men in the room before him, one an elderly man, whom he rightly guessed was the comandánte, and two younger men who were standing behind a railing and bending over a telegraph instrument on a table. As he stamped into the room, they looked up and stared at him in surprise; their faces showed that he had interrupted them at a moment of unusual interest.

MacWilliams saluted the three men civilly, and, according to the native custom, apologized for appearing before them in his spurs. He had been riding from Los Bocos to the capital, he said, and his horse had gone lame. Could they tell him him{sic} if there was any one in the village from whom he could hire a mule, as he must push on to the capital that night?

The comandánte surveyed him for a moment, as though still disturbed by the interruption, and then shook his head impatiently. “You can hire a mule from one Pulido Paul, at the corner of the plaza,” he said. And as MacWilliams still stood

uncertainly, he added, “You say you have come from Los Bocos. Did you meet any one on your way?”

The two younger men looked up at him anxiously, but before he could answer, the instrument began to tick out the signal, and they turned their eyes to it again, and one of them began to take its message down on paper.

The instrument spoke to MacWilliams also, for he was used to sending telegrams daily from the office to the mines, and could make it talk for him in either English or Spanish. So, in his effort to hear what it might say, he stammered and glanced at it involuntarily, and the comandánte, without suspecting his reason for doing so, turned also and peered over the shoulder of the man who was receiving the message. Except for the clicking of the instrument, the room was absolutely still; the three men bent silently over the table, while MacWilliams stood gazing at the ceiling and turning his hat in his hands. The message MacWilliams read from the instrument was this: “They are reported to have left the city by the south, so they are going to Para, or San Pedro, or to Los Bocos. She must be stopped—take an armed force and guard the roads. If necessary, kill her. She has in the carriage or hidden on her person, drafts for five million sols. You will be held responsible

for every one of them. Repeat this message to show you understand, and relay it to Los Bocos. If you fail—”

MacWilliams could not wait to hear more; he gave a curt nod to the men and started toward the stairs. “Wait,” the comandánte called after him.

MacWilliams paused with one hand on top of the banisters balancing himself in readiness for instant flight.

“You have not answered me. Did you meet with any one on your ride here from Los Bocos?”

“I met several men on foot, and the mail carrier passed me a league out from the coast, and oh, yes, I met a carriage at the cross roads, and the driver asked me the way of San Pedro Sula.”

“A carriage?—yes—and what did you tell him?”

“I told him he was on the road to Los Bocos, and he turned back and—”

“You are sure he turned back?”

“Certainly, sir. I rode behind him for some distance. He turned finally to the right into the trail to San Pedro Sula.”

The man flung himself across the railing.

“Quick,” he commanded, “telegraph to Morales, Comandánte San Pedro Sula—”

He had turned his back on MacWilliams, and as the younger man bent over the instrument, MacWilliams stepped softly down the stairs, and mounting his pony rode slowly off in the direction of the capital. As soon as he had reached the outskirts of the town, he turned and galloped round it and then rode fast with his head in air, glancing up at the telegraph wire that sagged from tree-trunk to tree-trunk along the trail. At a point where he thought he could dismount in safety and tear down the wire, he came across it dangling from the branches and he gave a shout of relief. He caught the loose end and dragged it free from its support, and then laying it across a rock pounded the blade of his knife upon it with a stone, until he had hacked off a piece some fifty feet in length. Taking this in his hand he mountted{sic} again and rode off with it, dragging the wire in the road behind him. He held it up as he rejoined Clay, and laughed triumphantly. “They'll have some trouble splicing that circuit,” he said, “you only half did the work. What wouldn't we give to know all this little piece of copper knows, eh?”

“Do you mean you think they have telegraphed to Los Bocos already?”

“I know that they were telegraphing to San Pedro Sula as I left and to all the coast towns. But

whether you cut this down before or after is what I should like to know.”

“We shall probably learn that later,” said Clay, grimly.

The last three miles of the journey lay over a hard, smooth road, wide enough to allow the carriage and its escort to ride abreast. It was in such contrast to the tortuous paths they had just followed, that the horses gained a fresh impetus and galloped forward as freely as though the race had but just begun.

Madame Alvarez stopped the carriage at one place and asked the men to lower the hood at the back that she might feel the fresh air and see about her, and when this had been done, the women seated themselves with their backs to the horses where they could look out at the moonlit road as it unrolled behind them.

Hope felt selfishly and wickedly happy. The excitement had kept her spirits at the highest point, and the knowledge that Clay was guarding and protecting her was in itself a pleasure. She leaned back on the cushions and put her arm around the older woman's waist, and listened to the light beat of his pony's hoofs outside, now running ahead, now scrambling and slipping up some steep place, and again coming to a halt as Langham or MacWilliams called, “Look to the right, behind those

trees,” or “Ahead there! Don't you see what I mean, something crouching?”

She did not know when the false alarms would turn into a genuine attack, but she was confident that when the time came he would take care of her, and she welcomed the danger because it brought that solace with it.

Madame Alvarez sat at her side, rigid, silent, and beyond the help of comfort. She tortured herself with thoughts of the ambitions she had held, and which had been so cruelly mocked that very morning; of the chivalric love that had been hers, of the life even that had been hers, and which had been given up for her so tragically. When she spoke at all, it was to murmur her sorrow that Hope had exposed herself to danger on her poor account, and that her life, as far as she loved it, was at an end. Only once after the men had parted the curtains and asked concerning her comfort with grave solicitude did she give way to tears.

“Why are they so good to me?” she moaned. “Why are you so good to me? I am a wicked, vain woman, I have brought a nation to war and I have killed the only man I ever trusted.”

Hope touched her gently with her hand and felt guiltily how selfish she herself must be not to feel the woman's grief, but she could not. She

only saw in it a contrast to her own happiness, a black background before which the figure of Clay and his solicitude for her shone out, the only fact in the world that was of value.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the carriage coming to a halt, and a significant movement upon the part of the men. MacWilliams had descended from the box-seat and stepping into the carriage took the place the women had just left.

He had a carbine in his hand, and after he was seated Langham handed him another which he laid across his knees.

“They thought I was too conspicuous on the box to do any good there,” he explained in a confidential whisper. “In case there is any firing now, you ladies want to get down on your knees here at my feet, and hide your heads in the cushions. We are entering Los Bocos.”

Langham and Clay were riding far in advance, scouting to the right and left, and the carriage moved noiselessly behind them through the empty streets. There was no light in any of the windows, and not even a dog barked, or a cock crowed. The women sat erect, listening for the first signal of an attack, each holding the other's hand and looking at MacWilliams, who sat with his thumb on the trigger of his carbine, glancing to the right and left and breathing quickly. His eyes twinkled,

like those of a little fox terrier. The men dropped back, and drew up on a level with the carriage.

“We are all right, so far,” Clay whispered. “The beach slopes down from the other side of that line of trees. What is the matter with you?” he demanded, suddenly, looking up at the driver, “are you afraid?”

“No,” the man answered, hurriedly, his voice shaking; “it's the cold.”

Langham had galloped on ahead and as he passed through the trees and came out upon the beach, he saw a broad stretch of moonlit water and the lights from the yacht shining from a point a quarter of a mile off shore. Among the rocks on the edge of the beach was the “Vesta's” longboat and her crew seated in it or standing about on the beach. The carriage had stopped under the protecting shadow of the trees, and he raced back toward it.

“The yacht is here,” he cried. “The long-boat is waiting and there is not a sign of light about the Custom-house. Come on,” he cried. “We have beaten them after all.”

A sailor, who had been acting as lookout on the rocks, sprang to his full height, and shouted to the group around the long-boat, and King came up the beach toward them running heavily through the deep sand.

Madame Alvarez stepped down from the carriage, and as Hope handed her her jewel case in silence, the men draped her cloak about her shoulders. She put out her hand to them, and as Clay took it in his, she bent her head quickly and kissed his hand. “You were his friend,” she murmured.

She held Hope in her arms for an instant, and kissed her, and then gave her hand in turn to Langham and to MacWilliams.

“I do not know whether I shall ever see you again,” she said, looking slowly from one to the other, “but I will pray for you every day, and God will reward you for saving a worthless life.” As she finished speaking King came up to the group, followed by three of his men.

“Is Hope with you, is she safe?” he asked.

“Yes, she is with me,” Madame Alvarez answered.

“Thank God,” King exclaimed, breathlessly. “Then we will start at once, Madame. Where is she? She must come with us!”

“Of course,” Clay-assented, eagerly, “she will be much safer on the yacht.”

But Hope protested. “I must get back to father,” she said. “The yacht will not arrive until late to-morrow, and the carriage can take me to him five hours earlier. The family have worried

too long about me as it is, and, besides, I will not leave Ted. I am going back as I came.”

“It is most unsafe,” King urged.

“On the contrary, it is perfectly safe now,” Hope answered. “It was not one of us they wanted.”

“You may be right,” King said. “They don't know what has happened to you, and perhaps after all it would be better if you went back the quicker way.” He gave his arm to Madame Alvarez and walked with her toward the shore. As the men surrounded her on every side and moved away, Clay glanced back at Hope and saw her standing upright in the carriage looking after them.

“We will be with you in a minute,” he called, as though in apology for leaving her for even that brief space. And then the shadow of the trees shut her and the carriage from his sight. His footsteps made no sound in the soft sand, and except for the whispering of the palms and the sleepy wash of the waves as they ran up the pebbly beach and sank again, the place was as peaceful and silent as a deserted island, though the moon made it as light as day.

The long-boat had been drawn up with her stern to the shore, and the men were already in their places, some standing waiting for the order to shove off, and others seated balancing their oars.

King had arranged to fire a rocket when the launch left the shore, in order that the captain of the yacht might run in closer to pick them up. As he hurried down the beach, he called to his boatswain to give the signal, and the man answered that he understood and stooped to light a match. King had jumped into the stern and lifted Madame Alvarez after him, leaving her late escort standing with uncovered heads on the beach behind her, when the rocket shot up into the calm white air, with a roar and a rush and a sudden flash of color. At the same instant, as though in answer to its challenge, the woods back of them burst into an irregular line of flame, a volley of rifle shots shattered the silence, and a score of bullets splashed in the water and on the rocks about them.

The boatswain in the bow of the long-boat tossed up his arms and pitched forward between the thwarts.

“Give way,” he shouted as he fell.

“Pull,” Clay yelled, “pull, all of you.”

He threw himself against the stern of the boat, and Langham and MacWilliams clutched its sides, and with their shoulders against it and their bodies half sunk in the water, shoved it off, free of the shore.

The shots continued fiercely, and two of the

crew cried out and fell back upon the oars of the men behind them.

Madame Alvarez sprang to her feet and stood swaying unsteadily as the boat leaped forward.

“Take me back. Stop, I command you,” she cried, “I will not leave those men. Do you hear?”

King caught her by the waist and dragged her down, but she struggled to free herself. “I will not leave them to be murdered,” she cried. “You cowards, put me back.”

“Hold her, King,” Clay shouted. “We're all right. They're not firing at us.”

His voice was drowned in the noise of the oars beating in the rowlocks, and the reports of the rifles. The boat disappeared in a mist of spray and moonlight, and Clay turned and faced about him. Langham and MacWilliams were crouching behind a rock and firing at the flashes in the woods.

“You can't stay there,” Clay cried. “We must get back to Hope.”

He ran forward, dodging from side to side and firing as he ran. He heard shots from the water, and looking back saw that the men in the longboat had ceased rowing, and were returning the fire from the shore.

“Come back, Hope is all right,” her brother called to him. “I haven't seen a shot within a

hundred yards of her yet, they're firing from the Custom-house and below. I think Mac's hit.”

“I'm not,” MacWilliams's voice answered from behind a rock, “but I'd like to see something to shoot at.”

A hot tremor of rage swept over Clay at the thought of a possibly fatal termination to the night's adventure. He groaned at the mockery of having found his life only to lose it now, when it was more precious to him than it had ever been, and to lose it in a silly brawl with semi-savages. He cursed himself impotently and rebelliously for a senseless fool.

“Keep back, can't you?” he heard Langham calling to him from the shore. “You're only drawing the fire toward Hope. She's got away by now. She had both the horses.”

Langham and MacWilliams started forward to Clay's side, but the instant they left the shadow of the rock, the bullets threw up the sand at their feet and they stopped irresolutely. The moon showed the three men outlined against the white sand of the beach as clearly as though a searchlight had been turned upon them, even while its shadows sheltered and protected their assailants. At their backs the open sea cut off retreat, and the line of fire in front held them in check. They were as helpless as chessmen upon a board.

“I'm not going to stand still to be shot at,” cried MacWilliams. “Let's hide or let's run. This isn't doing anybody any good.” But no one moved. They could hear the singing of the bullets as they passed them whining in the air like a banjo-string that is being tightened, and they knew they were in equal danger from those who were firing from the boat.

“They're shooting better,” said MacWilliams. “They'll reach us in a minute.”

“They've reached me already, I think,” Langham answered, with suppressed satisfaction, “in the shoulder. It's nothing.” His unconcern was quite sincere; to a young man who had galloped through two long halves of a football match on a strained tendon, a scratched shoulder was not important, except as an unsought honor.

But it was of the most importance to MacWilliams. He raised his voice against the men in the woods in impotent fury. “Come out, you cowards, where we can see you,” he cried. “Come out where I can shoot your black heads off.”

Clay had fired the last cartridge in his rifle, and throwing it away drew his revolver.

“We must either swim or hide,” he said. “Put your heads down and run.”

But as he spoke, they saw the carriage plunging out of the shadow of the woods and the horses

galloping toward them down the beach. MacWilliams gave a cheer of welcome. “Hurrah!” he shouted, “it's José coming for us. He's a good man. Well done, José!” he called.

“That's not José,” Langham cried, doubtfully, peering through the moonlight. “Good God! It's Hope,” he exclaimed. He waved his hands frantically above his head. “Go back, Hope,” he cried, “go back!”

But the carriage did not swerve on its way toward them. They all saw her now distinctly. She was on the driver's box and alone, leaning forward and lashing the horses' backs with the whip and reins, and bending over to avoid the bullets that passed above her head. As she came down upon them, she stood up, her woman's figure outlined clearly in the riding habit she still wore. “Jump in when I turn,” she cried. “I'm going to turn slowly, run and jump in.”

She bent forward again and pulled the horses to the right, and as they obeyed her, plunging and tugging at their bits, as though they knew the danger they were in, the men threw themselves at the carriage. Clay caught the hood at the back, swung himself up, and scrambled over the cushions and up to the box seat. He dropped down behind Hope, and reaching his arms around her took the reins in one hand, and with the other forced her

down to her knees upon the footboard, so that, as she knelt, his arms and body protected her from the bullets sent after them. Langham followed Clay, and tumbled into the carriage over the hood at the back, but MacWilliams endeavored to vault in from the step, and missing his footing fell under the hind wheel, so that the weight of the carriage passed over him, and his head was buried for an instant in the sand. But he was on his feet again before they had noticed that he was down, and as he jumped for the hood, Langham caught him by the collar of his coat and dragged him into the seat, panting and gasping, and rubbing the sand from his mouth and nostrils. Clay turned the carriage at a right angle through the heavy sand, and still standing with Hope crouched at his knees, he raced back to the woods into the face of the firing, with the boys behind him answering it from each side of the carriage, so that the horses leaped forward in a frenzy of terror, and dashing through the woods, passed into the first road that opened before them.

The road into which they had turned was narrow, but level, and ran through a forest of banana palms that bent and swayed above them. Langham and MacWilliams still knelt in the rear seat of the carriage, watching the road on the chance of possible pursuit.

“Give me some cartridges,” said Langham. “My belt is empty. What road is this?”

“It is a private road, I should say, through somebody's banana plantation. But it must cross the main road somewhere. It doesn't matter, we're all right now. I mean to take it easy.” MacWilliams turned on his back and stretched out his legs on the seat opposite.

“Where do you suppose those men sprang from? Were they following us all the time?”

“Perhaps, or else that message got over the wire before we cut it, and they've been lying in wait for us. They were probably watching King and his sailors for the last hour or so, but they didn't want him. They wanted her and the money. It was pretty exciting, wasn't it? How's your shoulder?”

“It's a little stiff, thank you,” said Langham. He stood up and by peering over the hood could just see the top of Clay's sombrero rising above it where he sat on the back seat.

“You and Hope all right up there, Clay?” he asked.

The top of the sombrero moved slightly, and Langham took it as a sign that all was well. He dropped back into his seat beside MacWilliams, and they both breathed a long sigh of relief and content. Langham's wounded arm was the one

nearest MacWilliams, and the latter parted the torn sleeve and examined the furrow across the shoulder with unconcealed envy.

“I am afraid it won't leave a scar,” he said, sympathetically.

“Won't it?” asked Langham, in some concern.

The horses had dropped into a walk, and the beauty of the moonlit night put its spell upon the two boys, and the rustling of the great leaves above their heads stilled and quieted them so that they unconsciously spoke in whispers.

Clay had not moved since the horses turned of their own accord into the valley of the palms. He no longer feared pursuit nor any interruption to their further progress. His only sensation was one of utter thankfulness that they were all well out of it, and that Hope had been the one who had helped them in their trouble, and his dearest thought was that, whether she wished or not, he owed his safety, and possibly his life, to her.

She still crouched between his knees upon the broad footboard, with her hands clasped in front of her, and looking ahead into the vista of soft mysterious lights and dark shadows that the moon cast upon the road. Neither of them spoke, and as the silence continued unbroken, it took a weightier

significance, and at each added second of time became more full of meaning.

The horses had dropped into a tired walk, and drew them smoothly over the white road; from behind the hood came broken snatches of the boys' talk, and above their heads the heavy leaves of the palms bent and bowed as though in benediction. A warm breeze from the land filled the air with the odor of ripening fruit and pungent smells, and the silence seemed to envelop them and mark them as the only living creatures awake in the brilliant tropical night.

Hope sank slowly back, and as she did so, her shoulder touched for an instant against Clay's knee; she straightened herself and made a movement as though to rise. Her nearness to him and something in her attitude at his feet held Clay in a spell. He bent forward and laid his hand fearfully upon her shoulder, and the touch seemed to stop the blood in his veins and hushed the words upon his lips. Hope raised her head slowly as though with a great effort, and looked into his eyes. It seemed to him that he had been looking into those same eyes for centuries, as though he had always known them, and the soul that looked out of them into his. He bent his head lower, and stretching out his arms drew her to him, and

the eyes did not waver. He raised her and held her close against his breast. Her eyes faltered and closed.

“Hope,” he whispered, “Hope.” He stooped lower and kissed her, and his lips told her what they could not speak—and they were quite alone.