|FOR half an hour after Webster left her to assist the great-hearted
Mother Jenks in her rough care of the wounded, Dolores, absorbed in her
work of mercy, gave all of her thought to the grim task before her. The
cries, followed by the sudden, savage outbreak of fire when the Guards
made their dash from the palace, brought Webster and Don Juan to mind
instantly. In a quick access of terror and apprehension she clung,
trembling, to stolid old Mother Jenks.
“Somebody's breakin' in or breakin' out,” the veteran decided calmly.
“Come to the corner, dearie, an' 'ave a look.”
She half dragged Dolores to the corner, from which they had an
unobstructed view down the cross-street to its intersection three blocks
distant with the Calle San Rosario; consequently they saw the dozen or
more survivors of that ill-fated dash from the north gate of the palace
flash for a second across their line of vision. Mother Jenks croaked
dismally, like a disreputable old raven; she was trying to cheer.
“The rats are leavin' the sinkin' ship,” she wheezed. “Come an' see them
tyke the devils as killed my sainted 'Enery.” She broke eagerly from
Dolores's detaining grasp and ran down the street. Dolores hesitated a
moment; then, reasoning that her duty lay in pursuing Mother Jenks and
preventing her from rushing headlong into the conflict, she followed.
Evidently the fleeing Guards had scurried around a corner into a
cross-street shortly after Dolores and Mother Jenks had seen them gallop
past, for the firing down the Calle San Rosario had ceased entirely by
the time they reached it. They stood a moment at the corner, gazing up
the street at the dead--man and beast--with the wounded crawling out of
the shambles to the sidewalk.
Mother Jenks nodded approvingly as triumphant shouts from the north
gate told her the Ruey men were pouring into the palace; with their arms
about each other the two women watched and waited--and presently the
national flag on the palace came fluttering down from its staff, to be
raised again with the red banner of revolution fluttering above it, the
insignia of a nation reborn.
“My lamb,” Mother Jenks said softly to Dolores, “the war is over. Wot's
the matter with goin' in the south gate an' wytin' on the palace steps
for the provisional president to make his grand ountray? If we 'esitate
five minutes they'll have a bloomin' guard on both gates, arskin' us 'oo
we are an' wot we want.”
“But Mr. Webster will come to that back street looking for me; I must go
back and wait there for him.”
“Wyte, nothink!” Mother Jenks overruled the girl's protest roughly.
“'E'll 'ave gone into the palace with the crowd for a look-see; we'll
meet 'im there an' syve 'im the trouble o' 'untin' for us. Come!” And she
half dragged the shrinking girl toward the gate, a block distant, where
only a few minutes before Webster and Don Juan Cafetéro had made their
ineffectual stand.
“Don't look at the blighters, honey,” Mother Jenks warned Dolores when,
in approaching the gate, she caught sight of the bodies strewed in front
of it. “My word! Regular bally mess--an' all spiggoties! Cawn't be. Must
'ave been some white meat on this bird, as my sainted 'Enery uster s'y.
Hah! Thought so! There's a red-headed 'un! Gawd's truth! An' 'e done all
that--Gor' strike me pink! It's Don Juan Cafetéro.”
Mother Jenks stepped over the gory corpses ringed around Don Juan
and knelt beside him. “Don Juan!” she cried. “You bally, interferin'
blighter, you've gone an' got it!”
She ran her strong old arms under his dripping body, lifted him and
laid his red head on her knee, while with her free hand she drew a small
flask of brandy from her dress pocket.
Don Juan opened his buttermilk eyes and gazed up at her with slowly
dawning wonder, then closed them again, drowsily, like a tired child.
Mother Jenks pressed the flask to his blue lips; as the brandy bit his
tongue he rolled his fiery head in feeble protest and weakly set his
teeth against the lip of the flask. Wondering, Mother Jenks withdrew
it--and then Don Juan spoke.
“Have ye the masther's permission, _allanah?_ I give him me worm av
honour--not--to dhrink--till--he--give--permission. He--was good--to
me--troth he was--God--love--me--boss----”
His jaw dropped loosely; his head rolled sideways; but ere his spirit
fled, Don Juan Cafetéro had justified the faith of his master. He had
kept his word of honour. He had made good on his brag to die for John
Stuart Webster and welcome the chance! Mother Jenks held his body a
little while, gazing into the face no longer rubicund; then gently she
eased it to the ground and for the first time was aware that Dolores
knelt in the dirt opposite to her striving to lift the body upon which
Don Juan had been lying.
The strength of Dolores was unequal to the task; so Mother Jenks,
hardened, courageous, calm as her sainted 'Enery at his inglorious
finish, rose and stepped around to her side to help her. She could see
this other was a white man, too; coolly she stooped and wiped his gory
face with the hem of her apron. And then she recognized him!
“Lift him up! Give him to me!” Dolores sobbed. “Oh, Caliph, my poor
dear, big-hearted blundering boy!”
She got her arm under his head; Mother Jenks aided her; and the limp
body was lifted to a sitting position; then Dolores knelt on one knee,
supporting him with the other, and drew his head over on her shoulder;
with her white cheek cuddled against his, she spoke into his deaf ears
the little, tender, foolish words that mothers have for their children,
that women have for the stricken men of their love. She pleaded with him
to open his eyes, to speak to her and tell her he still lived; so close
was his face to hers that she saw an old but very faint white scar
running diagonally across his left eyebrow--and kissed it.
Presently strong arms took him from her; clinging to somebody--she
knew not whom--she followed, moaning broken-heartedly, while eight
men, forming a rude litter with four rifles passed under his body, bore
Webster to the shade of a tufted palm inside the palace gate.
As they laid Webster down for a moment there Dolores saw a tall,
youthful man, of handsome features and noble bearing, approach and look
at him. In his eyes there were tears; a sob escaped him as with a little
impulsive, affectionate movement he patted John Stuart Webster's cheek.
“My friend!” the fainting Dolores heard him murmur. “My great-hearted,
whimsical, lovable John Webster. You made it possible for me to meet you
here to-night--and this is the meeting!”