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She sat down beside Walthew, and they smoked in silence for a while. Blanca was studying Carson's face as it was lighted by the glow from the charcoal.
"Why did you help Altiera?" she asked him suddenly.
"Commercial interest. He has given us one or two trading privileges. And he seemed to think I had a pretty good chance of getting through."
"Do you know what his orders to Gomez were?"
Grahame had wondered when she meant to ask this, and had left it to her, feeling that she was more likely to catch the messenger off his guard.
Carson laughed.
"Honestly, I don't know; Altiera isn't the man to take an outsider into his confidence."
"Still, you know something."
"Well," Carson said quietly, "I'm sorry I must refuse to tell you my surmises. No doubt you'll understand my obstinacy."
"Aren't you rash, señor?" Blanca asked in a meaning tone.
"On the whole, I think not. Of course, I'm in your hands, but as I've promised not to give you away, I expect these gentlemen won't take an unfair advantage of me. Then, from what I know about Don Martin, I feel that I can trust his daughter."
Blanca smiled.
"Well," she said, "I suppose we must let you go. You are at liberty to leave us when you wish."
Grahame and Walthew agreed, and Carson shook hands with them.
"It's evident that your only reason for stopping near Rio Frio is that Miss Sarmiento finds it impossible to walk any farther," he remarked. "She's welcome to my mule. Gomez requisitioned it from a man called Silva, who's suspected of sympathizing with your party. I believe I know where to find another animal."
They thanked him and let him go; and soon after he vanished into the darkness, Blanca mounted the mule and they set off again.
Pushing on until dawn, they found a small, deserted hacienda standing back from the road, and as tall forest grew close up to it, offering a line of retreat, they decided to rest there. The mule looked jaded. Blanca admitted that she could not go much farther, and Walthew was obviously worn out. They could find nothing to eat; but there was some furniture in the house, and Blanca found a place to sleep in one of the rooms, while the men lay down on a rug outside. The sun was now rising above the high cordillera and, wet with the dew as they were, they enjoyed the warmth. A few lizards crept about the wall in front of them, and an archway near by commanded a view of the road. The building was in good order, and had apparently been abandoned on the approach of the President's soldiers.
"These people know what to expect; they must have been ready to light out," Walthew remarked. "I rather liked that fellow Carson, but it's curious he didn't ask us anything about our business."
"He'd take it for granted that we had an active part in the revolution."
"No doubt the señorita's being with us would suggest something of the kind, but he seemed surprised at first," Walthew replied with a thoughtful air. "For all that, I can't quite see – "
"No," said Grahame; "I don't think you altogether understand the situation yet. I suppose you mean to marry Miss Sarmiento?"
"Certainly, if she'll have me," Walthew answered with firmness, though he looked at his comrade as if he expected something more.
Grahame smiled.
"Then you're to be congratulated, because you won't have much trouble in getting your wish."
"What do you mean?" Walthew's tone was sharp, but he remembered an incident during his escape from the town. "I'll admit I wasn't quite hopeless, but we were both in danger – "
He broke off, and Grahame regarded him with a friendly laugh.
"You're modest – and you're more ignorant of Spanish customs than I thought. However, I'd better explain, so you'll know how Don Martin will look at it. To begin with, a well-brought-up girl is never permitted to meet a man unless she is suitably escorted by an older member of the family, and you have been wandering about with Miss Sarmiento for two or three days. Now you can understand why Carson was surprised, and I noticed he was uncertain how to address Miss Sarmiento at first. She noticed his hesitation, though you did not."
For some moments Walthew was silent, his brows knitted.
"No, I never thought of it," he admitted. "But we'll say no more about it until I've seen Don Martin. Besides, there's another matter. A fellow who joined us at the lagoon gave me a letter for you. Sorry I forgot it until now, but I had a good deal to think about."
"I don't suppose it's important," Grahame replied, and lighted a cigarette before opening the envelope with an English stamp.
Then his expression changed, and a few moments afterward he let the letter drop and sat very still. The cigarette went out, the hot sun shone upon his uncovered head, and a lizard ran across his leg; but he did not move. He seemed lost in thought. Walthew, watching with puzzled sympathy, waited for him to speak.
"This letter has been a long time on the way," he explained at last. "It probably had to wait at our Havana address, and then Don Martin's people had no opportunity to deliver it."
"But what's the news?" Walthew asked.
Grahame answered with a strained laugh.
"In a sense, it's rather a grim joke. While I've been risking my life for a few dollars' profit on smuggled guns, and practicing the sternest self-denial, it seems I've been the owner of an old Border estate."
"Ah!" said Walthew. "Then Calder Hall now belongs to you?"
"What do you know about Calder Hall?"
"I've known all about it for some time, and I'm very glad. But I understand that you didn't expect to inherit the estate."
"No; it seemed impossible. I won't trouble you with family particulars, but two deaths have occurred in a very short time. The last owner was no older than I am and married, but his only child is a girl, and he was killed while hunting. Although he was my cousin, I've rarely seen him."
He was silent again for some minutes, his mind busy with alluring visions. He had long struggled with poverty, and had wandered about the world engaging in reckless adventures, but he had inherited a love for the old home of his race; and now it was his. But this, while counting for much, was not the main thing. He had been strongly attracted by Evelyn Cliffe, but, recognizing his disadvantages, he had tried hard to hold in check the love for her which grew in spite of him. The obstacles that had bulked so large were now removed. He was free to win her if he could, and it was comforting to remember that in her urgent need she had sent for him. But he had work to finish first.
"I suppose you mean to start home as soon as you can?" Walthew suggested.
"No," Grahame answered quietly, "I'm not going yet. For one thing, we have taken Don Martin's money, and now that he has to meet a crisis we can't leave him in the lurch. Besides, one day at San Lucar, we promised some of the leaders of the movement that we'd see them through."
It was a good reason. Grahame was not the man to do a shabby thing, but Walthew, remembering that Evelyn was with the rebels, thought his comrade had a stronger motive for staying.
"Well," he agreed, "I guess that's so. Anyway, the game can't last much longer; they'll have to use our guns in the next few days."
"Yes; and as we don't know what part we'll have in it, you'd better get some rest. I'll keep watch a while."
Walthew was glad of the opportunity to sleep; and Grahame, moving back into the shadow as the sun got hot, sat still, with his mind busy and his eyes fixed upon the road.
At noon Blanca came out of the house and stood looking down at Walthew with a compassionate gentleness that she did not try to hide. The half-healed cut showed plainly on his forehead, his brown face looked worn, and he lay in an attitude of deep weariness.
"It is a pity to wake him, but we must start," she said, and indicated the scar. "I suppose you can guess that he has borne something, and he got that wound for you."
"I'm not likely to forget it," Grahame answered quietly.
"No," Blanca said with a curious smile. "You do not make many protestations, you men of the North, but one can trust you."
She stooped and touched Walthew gently.
"It is noon and we must go."
Her voice was quiet, but Walthew seemed to know it in his sleep, for he sprang to his feet with a half-ashamed air.
"I didn't mean to sleep so long," he said, and looked at Blanca anxiously. "Have you rested enough? Are you quite fit to travel?"
Blanca smiled; and when Walthew brought up the mule and helped her to mount she noticed something new in his manner. Hitherto, it had been marked by a certain diffidence, but now this had gone. He was assiduously careful of her, but with a hint of proprietary right. Something had happened since she had last seen him to account for the change. She gave Grahame a searching glance, but his face was impassive.
They set off, Walthew walking beside the mule, but it was to Grahame that the girl spoke as they moved slowly forward in the scorching heat. He thought he understood, and his eyes twinkled with amusement when she was not looking. Blanca suspected him, and she did not mean Walthew to take too much for granted.
CHAPTER XXXII
LOVE'S VISION
It was late when Walthew led Blanca's mule through the rebel camp to the table under a tree where Don Martin sat writing. There was a half moon in the sky, and as they passed between the rows of motionless, dark figures stretched on the ground, here and there an upturned face caught the light and shone a livid white. In places a sentry's form was silhouetted, vague and black, against the sky, but except for this all was wrapped in puzzling shadow, and silence brooded over the camp.
One of Don Martin's staff sat beside the table, smoking a cigarette, another lay asleep near by, but a small lamp burned steadily near the leader's hand, lighting up his grave face against the gloom. He put down his pen and waited when Walthew stopped the mule and helped the girl to dismount.
"I have had the honor of escorting the señorita from Rio Frio, where with her help I got my partner out of the carcel," he said.
"Yes," Don Martin returned in a quiet voice, "I have heard something of this. I am told that you met my daughter at the hacienda Perez. Was it by accident?"
Walthew, remembering Grahame's remarks on the subject, felt embarrassed, for the steadiness of Don Martin's glance was significant.
"Certainly!" he answered. "I had never heard of the hacienda before I reached it. For all that, I would not have kept away if I had known the señorita was there."
"One must acknowledge your frankness," Don Martin remarked. "Well, what happened afterward?"
Walthew looked at Blanca, but she seemed to be smiling as she unfolded her fan, and he began a brief account of their adventures.
"And your comrade is with you?" asked Don Martin. "I was told of his escape, but you have been some time on the way. Our friends who lost you in Rio Frio arrived this morning."
Blanca laughed.
"I cannot walk like a peon," she explained.
"But you came on a mule!"
"We had gone some distance when Carson, the trader, lent it to us."
Walthew had not mentioned their meeting with the President's messenger, and Don Martin looked surprised.
"Carson!" he exclaimed. "If I did not believe Mr. Grahame was a man of honor, I should not know what to think."
"Mr. Walthew also is a man of honor," Blanca retorted in a meaning tone. "But I have news which you must hear at once."
Don Martin turned to Walthew.
"You will give me a few minutes; then I will see you again."
Taking this as a dismissal, Walthew went back to where Grahame was waiting and smoked a cigarette with him. Soon after he had finished it, a drowsy soldier beckoned him and he returned to Sarmiento. When he reached the table Blanca had gone.
"Señor," he said, "I have a favor to ask; but the accident that I was thrown into Miss Sarmiento's company at the hacienda and Rio Frio has nothing to do with it. You must understand that. I want your consent to my marriage to your daughter."
"Ah!" said Don Martin. "You have learned that she is willing?"
Walthew felt half guilty when he thought of the kiss beneath the window-sill, but he looked at Don Martin steadily.
"I thought it better to follow your customs," he explained. "Blanca does not know I meant to ask you. But I want to say that my mind has been made up for some time. It was for her sake that I determined to stay on the coast and give you all the help I could."
There was a gleam of amusement in Don Martin's eyes.
"Then my daughter gained us a useful ally. But, so far, you have spoken for yourself. What about your parents? Blanca Sarmiento is not an American."
Walthew hesitated for a moment.
"They may feel some surprise, but I believe it will vanish when they have seen her; and I choose my wife to please myself. I think I have means enough to make my way without any help, though I haven't a great deal."
"How much?"
Sarmiento nodded when Walthew told him.
"It is enough; you would be thought a rich man in this country. Still, I would prefer to have your father's consent. It is our custom that a marriage should be arranged with the approval of both families."
"But you are a progressive and don't count much on customs. I understand that you mean to cut out all those that stop your people from going ahead."
"It is true to some extent," Don Martin admitted with a smile. "For all that, one may believe in progress in the abstract, and yet hesitate about making risky experiments that touch one's own family. However, if Blanca is willing, I can trust her to you."
"I'll try to deserve your confidence," Walthew answered, and added with a naïvely thoughtful air: "My people will come round; the only thing they'll insist on is that I enter the family business, and that's going to be easier than I thought."
"Why did you refuse in the beginning?"
"It's rather hard to explain. I wanted to get into touch with realities, to learn what I was good for and find my proper level."
Sarmiento made a sign of comprehension.
"And in searching for what you call realities, you have found yourself."
Walthew recognized the truth of this. It was not that in facing danger and hardship he had gained steadiness and self-control, because he had never lacked courage, but he had acquired a clearer conception of essential things. He would no longer be content to accept thoughtlessly the conventional view. His comrade had taught him much by his coolness in time of strain and his stubborn tenacity when things went wrong. It was not for nothing that Grahame had hawk-like eyes: he had the gift of seeing what must be done. But, after all, it was from hardship itself that Walthew had learned most, and in the light of that knowledge he determined to go home. The work he was best fitted for was waiting in the smoky, industrial town; it was not the task he had longed for, but it was his, and he would be content now.
Don Martin smiled.
"You may try to persuade Blanca to go with you to your country, if you wish. I want a talk with your comrade now. Will you send him to me?"
Walthew left him with a light heart, and shortly afterward Grahame joined Don Martin.
"Señor," said the leader, "you have kept your agreement with us faithfully, and I do not know that we have any further claim, but I understand that you do not mean to leave us yet."
"No," Grahame replied quietly; "I shall see you through."
"Good! Another body of our friends is gathering at a village to which I will send you with a guide. They are well armed and determined. I offer you command."
"Where is the señorita Cliffe?" Grahame wanted to know.
"At a hacienda two or three hours' ride back. She is in good hands, and at daybreak my daughter leaves to join her."
Grahame was sensible of keen disappointment.
"When do you wish me to start?" he asked.
"As soon as possible; but you'd better take an hour's rest."
"I'm ready now if you will give me my orders."
When, a few minutes later, he rode away with the guide, Walthew and Blanca left the camp and followed a path that led through a field of rustling sugar-cane.
"We must not go far," Blanca protested. "This is quite against my people's idea of what is correct."
"It's a sign of the change you're going to make for me. You might have been something like a princess here, and you'll be the wife of a plain American citizen, instead."
"I never wanted to be a princess," she said; "and certainly not a conspirator. All I really hoped for was one faithful subject."
"You have one whose loyalty won't change. But you mustn't expect too much, because I'm giving up my adventurous career and turning business man. Men like Bolivar and the other fellow you wanted me to copy aren't born every day – and I'm not sure we'd appreciate them if they were."
Blanca laughed.
"You are a pessimist, but I will tell you a secret. It needs courage to be the wife of a great soldier and I am not brave enough." Her voice fell to a low, caressing note. "One's heart shrinks from sending the man one loves into danger."
Walthew stopped in the path and faced the girl. She was smiling. The half-moon, now high overhead, shed its beams down in a weird light that lay over everything like a mantle of blue silver. All about them the tall cane whispered in the wind.
Walthew opened his arms, and Blanca cuddled to him.
"It is so wonderful!" he breathed, after the first long kiss. "So wonderful that you are really going back to the States with me!"
"You are not going back the same," she smiled up at him; and he stooped and kissed the smile.
" – You have seen the vision," she finished; "romance has touched you."
"It was you who opened my eyes. Perhaps now they are dazzled; but we will never let the vision quite fade. Romance shall spread her bright wings above the home I'm going to build you on the river bluff – "
Again he found her mouth, and drank deep.
The silence was broken by a rattle of leather and a jingle of steel that startled them, and as they turned quickly and walked up the path a dark figure rose out of the gloom ahead and stood before them, sinister and threatening. When Walthew had answered the sentry's challenge, Blanca shivered.
"I had forgotten for a few minutes," she said. "Rio Frio is not taken yet, and you must fight for us."
"For two or three days, if all goes well. It can't be a long struggle. Rio Frio is bound to fall."
Blanca clung closer to him.
"I cannot keep you," she said; "but how I wish the days were over! There is nothing of the princess in me; I am only an anxious girl."
CHAPTER XXXIII
THE HERO OF RIO FRIO
Day was breaking when Cliffe saw Rio Frio loom out above low-lying mist. There was no perceptible light in the sky, but the scattered clumps of trees were growing blacker and more distinct, and the town began to stand out against a dusky background. It had an unsubstantial look, as if it might suddenly fade away, and Cliffe felt that he was doing something fantastic and unreal as he watched the blurred forms of his companions move on. To some extent, want of sleep and weariness accounted for this, because he had marched all night, but the silence with which the rebels advanced helped the illusion. A number of them were barefooted and the raw-hide sandals of the others made no sound in the thick dust.
Cliffe marched near the head of the straggling battalion, a cartridge-belt round his waist and a rifle on his shoulder. His light clothes were damp and stained with soil. His costly Panama hat hung, crumpled and shapeless, about his head, and he did not differ much in external appearance from the men around him. They were a picturesque, undisciplined band, but Cliffe knew that they meant business. He recognized that there was something humorous about his marching with them. He belonged to the orderly cities, where he had been treated as a man of importance, but now he was swayed by primitive impulses and had cast off the habits of civilization.
The rebel leader had promised to make inquiries about Evelyn, but had learned nothing. Cliffe imagined that the man, having other things to think about, had not been very diligent. He held Gomez accountable for the distress he felt. The rogue had cheated him and stolen his daughter. Cliffe sternly determined that he should pay for it. Gomez, however, was in Rio Frio and, since he could not be reached by other means, Cliffe was ready to fight his way into the town. The curious thing was that instead of finding the prospect disagreeable he was conscious of a certain fierce satisfaction. The commander of the detachment had treated him well, but his limited knowledge of Castilian had made it necessary that he should take his place in the ranks.
The leading files halted, and from their disjointed remarks Cliffe gathered that a picket of the enemy's had been surprised by the scouts. He had heard no shots, but he could imagine the dark-skinned men, many of whom had Indian blood in them, crawling silently through the long grass with unsheathed knives. It was not a pleasant picture; but the road was clear.
The light was growing when they went on, moving faster. The need for haste was obvious. As they were not numerous, they must enter the town while darkness covered their approach, and they were late. Another detachment should have met them, but it had not arrived. On the whole, Cliffe did not think their chances good, but that did not daunt him, and he trudged on with the rest, the dust rolling like a fog about his head.
After a while the advance split up into two streams of hurrying men, and, going with one body, Cliffe saw the flat-topped houses near ahead. Stumbling among small bushes, and gazing between the shoulders of the men in front, he made out a shadowy opening in the line of buildings. A few minutes later the clatter of sandals rose from slippery stones, there were blank walls about him, and he was in the town. It was hard to believe they had entered unopposed, without a shot being fired, but he supposed the guard had been surprised and overpowered by friends inside.
The backs of the leading files obstructed his view, but now that they were moving down a narrow lane the air throbbed with the sound of their advance. Rifle slings rattled, feet fell with a rapid beat, and now and then an order broke through the jingle of steel. Then a shot rang out and the men began to run, two or three falling out here and there, with the intention, Cliffe supposed, of occupying friendly houses. A little later, the advance guard swung out into a wider street, and a group of men began tearing up the pavement; it had been loosened beforehand, and the stones came up easily. Another group were throwing furniture out of the houses. They worked frantically, though they were fired at, and Cliffe could hear the bullets splash upon the stones.
For the most part, the men were wiry peons, some toiling half naked, but there were a number who looked like prosperous citizens. The light, however, was dim and they were hard to distinguish as they flitted to and fro with their loads or plied the shovel. A barricade was rising fast, but the alarm had spread. Detached shouts and a confused uproar rolled across the town, the call of bugles joined in, and the sharp clang of the rifles grew more frequent. Cliffe could see no smoke, but he imagined that the roofs farther on were occupied by the troops Gomez was no doubt hurrying into action.
The attack had obviously been well timed and arranged with the coöperation of revolutionaries in the town, but while the rebels had gained an entrance, they seemed unable to follow up their success, and it remained to be seen if they could hold their ground until reënforcements arrived. Finding no opportunity for doing anything useful, Cliffe sat down on the pavement and lighted a cigarette. He did not feel the nervousness he had expected, but he was tired and hungry. It was four o'clock on the previous afternoon when he shared the officers' frugal dinner, and he had eaten nothing since. There was no use in speculating about what was likely to happen in the next few hours, but he meant to have a reckoning with Gomez if he came through alive.