"Now, then, I'll explain," said Alaire, turning to the men. "Longorio
declares he won't have me except as his wife, and I think he means it.
He is amazingly egotistical. He has tremendous ambitions. He thinks
this war is his great opportunity, and he means to be President--he's
sure of it. He loves me, but he loves himself better, I'm sure. Now,
don't you see? He'll have to choose one or the other."
Father O'Malley did not appear to appreciate the full force of this
reasoning. "My dear," he said, gravely, "he can make you a widow again.
In such times as these men are savages."
"Oh, but that's not all." Alaire turned to her newly made husband.
"They let you in, and they'll let you out again--if you go quickly,
before it's known what we've done."
Dave stared at her in bewilderment. "I? I go, and--leave you?" He
seemed doubtful of her sanity.
"Yes." When he laughed shortly, Alaire cried: "Dave, you must! Don't
you see what I'm driving at? If he can't marry me, if he finds you're
gone and he can't lay hands on you, what can he do but let me go? Dave
dear, for my sake, for the sake of us both--"
"You're excited," he told her, and drew her to himself gently.
"Please! PLEASE!" she implored.
"You don't know that man," said Father O'Malley, with conviction.
But Alaire insisted, half hysterically now: "I do; that's just it, I DO
know him. He is planning the greatest things for himself, his head is
in the clouds, and he daren't do the things he used to do. That's why I
called in those women as witnesses. He can't put THEM out of the way.
With Dave gone I'll be safe. He can't ignore our marriage. But
otherwise--There's no telling what he may do. Why, he'll kill you,
Dave, as he killed Ed." She upturned a face eloquent with pleading.
"Won't you do this for me?"
"No!" Law declared, firmly. "You wouldn't ask it if you were in your
senses. Get me a gun and I'll shoot my way out. We'll go until they
stop us. But don't ask me to leave you."
She searched his face eagerly, piteously, then with a quivering sigh
relaxed her tension. "Then we've only made matters worse. You've
spoiled our only chance."
Father O'Malley, who had been lost in thought, spoke up again: "Perhaps
you will let me try my wits. But first, do I understand that it was he
who effected the death of--Mr. Austin?"
Dave recounted as coherently as he could the circumstances of Ed's
death, and told how he had learned, through José, of Longorio's
intentions. As the priest listened a spot of color grew in his cheeks,
his eyes glowed with indignation. He was about to make known what was
in his mind when Alaire raised her hand and in a strained whisper
exclaimed:
"'Sh-h! Listen!"
The heavy door of the hacienda creaked, a quick tread sounded on the
tiles, the door to the living-room was flung open, and Longorio
entered. He was hot and dusty from his ride, but with a lover's
impetuosity he had made straight for this lighted room.
For the briefest instant he balanced himself just inside the portal,
and the smile remained fixed upon his lips. Then his eyes became ringed
with white and he made a swift, catlike movement of retreat. Plainly
this was the supremest surprise of his lifetime, and he seemed to doubt
his senses. But he recovered quickly. Thrusting his head forward, he
demanded:
"What is this? You--and you?" He stared from Dave to the priest, then
back again.
They all spoke at once, but he heard only Alaire's words:
"He came to find me."
Pancho appeared in the doorway behind Longorio, saying, "I heard you
ride up, sir, so I ran to tell you about this fellow."
But the general cut him short. "Call your men, quick," he cried in a
voice that sent the soldier leaping back into the night.
Alaire was clinging to Dave, merely clutching him the tighter when he
tried to unclasp her hold. Her movement into the shelter of his rival's
arms infuriated Longorio, who uttered an exclamation and fumbled
uncertainly with his holster. But his fingers were clumsy. He could not
take his eyes from the pair, and he seemed upon the point of rushing
forward to tear them apart.
"Don't touch her! Don't--" he began, cursing in a high-pitched voice.
"God! What a reckoning!" Then he stamped his feet, he wrung his hands,
he called shrilly at the top of his voice: "Lieutenant! Ho, Pancho! You
fellows! Quickly!" Under the stress of his excitement the feminine side
of his character betrayed itself.
Alaire felt her newly made husband gather himself for a spring; he was
muttering to her to release him; he was trying to push her aside, but
she held fast with the strength of desperation.
"You can't harm us," she declared, flinging her words defiantly at the
Mexican. "You dare not. You are too late. Father O'Malley has just
married us."
Longorio uttered a peculiar, wordless cry of dismay; his mouth fell
open; his arms dropped; he went limp all over, paralyzed momentarily by
surprise and horror; his eyes protruded; he swayed as if his sight had
blurred.
"I said I'd never marry you," she rushed on, vibrantly. "This is the
man I love--the only man. Yes, and I've learned the truth about you. I
know who killed Mr. Austin."
Longorio did a very unexpected thing then; slowly, unconsciously, as if
the movement were the result of a half-forgotten training, he crossed
himself.
But now from the hall at his back came the pounding of boot-heels, and
a half dozen panting troopers tumbled through the door. He waved them
back and out into the hall again.
Father O'Malley, who had been trying to make himself heard, stepped in
front of the general and said, solemnly: "Take care what you do,
Longorio. I have married these people, and you can't undo what I have
done. We are American citizens. The laws of civilization protect us."
The Mexican fought for his voice, then stammered: "You are my priest; I
brought you here. I offered to marry her. Now--you force me to damn my
soul." Turning his eyes wildly upon Alaire, he shouted: "Too late, eh?
You say I am too late! It seems that I am barely in time."
Dave added his words to the others: "You are ten to one, but you can't
have her," he cried, defiantly. "José Sanchez confessed to the murder
of Mr. Austin, and told how you had got Mrs. Austin to come here. The
whole thing is known in Washington and Mexico City by this time. The
newspapers have it; everybody knows you are keeping her as your
prisoner, and that I have come for her. If she is harmed, all Mexico,
all the world, will know that you are worse than a murderer."
Longorio reached behind his back and slammed the door in the faces of
his listening men.
"What is this? What did José confess?" he inquired, sharply.
"He swears you hired him."
"Bah! The word of a pelador."
In spite of the man's contemptuous tone Dave saw the expression in his
face and made a quick decision. "There's a limit to what you dare to
do, Longorio. I'm unarmed; I make no resistance, so there is no excuse
for violence. I surrender to you, and claim protection for myself and
my wife."
But Longorio was not to be tricked. "Good!" he cried, triumphantly. "I
have been looking forward to something like this, and I shall give
myself a great pleasure." He laid a hand upon the doorknob, but before
he could turn it the Catholic priest had him by the arm, and with a
strength surprising in one of his stature wrenched him away. Father
O'Malley's face was white and terrible; his voice was deep, menacing;
the hand he raised above Longorio seemed to brandish a weapon.
"Stop!" he thundered. "Are you a madman? Destruction hangs over you;
destruction of body and soul. You dare not separate those whom God hath
joined."
"God! God!" the other shrilled. "I don't believe in Him. I am a god; I
know of no other."
"Blasphemer!" roared the little man. "Listen, then. So surely as you
harm these people, so surely do you kill your earthly prospects. You,
the first man of Mexico, the Dictator indeed! Think what you are doing
before it is too late. Is your dream of greatness only a dream? Will
you sacrifice yourself and all your aspirations in the heat of this
unholy and impossible passion? Tonight, now, you must choose whether
you will be famous or infamous, glorious or shameful, honored or
dishonored! Restrain your hatred and conquer your lust, or forego for
ever your dreams of empire and pass into oblivion."
"You are a meddler," Longorio stormed. "You make a loud noise, but I
shall rid Mexico of your kind. We shall have no more of you priests."
Father O'Malley shook the speaker as a parent shakes an unruly child.
"See! You have completely lost your head. But I want you to listen to
what I am saying. Whether you are more good than evil, God must judge,
but the people of Mexico are good people, and they will not be ruled by
a man who is wholly bad. You have the power to remove this man and this
woman, yes, and this priest who dares to point out the pit at your
feet; but if you do you will never command another Mexican army. There
is no war. We are not your enemies. The world knows we are here, and it
holds you accountable for our safety. To-morrow you will have to face
the reckoning."
Longorio listened. It was plain that he recognized the truth of
O'Malley's words, but he was convulsed with rage.
"Good!" he cried. "I see my dreams dissolve, but I am not the first
great man to trade an empire for a woman. Antony, the Roman general,
laid his honor in a woman's arms. I had a shining destiny, but Mexico
will be the sufferer by my betrayal. Instead of Longorio the Deliverer,
I shall be known as Longorio the Lover, the man who gave all--"
O'Malley interrupted forcefully. "Enough of this! Come with me. I have
something more to say to you." He flung open the door into the hall
and, taking the general by the arm, fairly dragged him from the room
and into the one opposite. The lieutenant and his men looked on in
amazement, shuffling their feet and shifting their rifle butts noisily
upon the floor.
Alaire turned an anxious face to Dave, saying: "He is wonderful.
Longorio is almost--afraid of him."
"Yes; he may bring him to his senses. If he doesn't--" Dave cast his
eyes desperately over the room, conscious all the time that he was
being watched with suspicion by the men outside. He stirred restlessly
and moistened his lips. "Longorio would be crazy to injure you."
Ten minutes passed; fifteen. Alaire leaned, motionless, against the
table; Dave paced about, followed by the eyes of the soldiers. One of
the latter struck a match, and in the silence it sounded like a
gunshot. Dave started, at which the soldiers laughed. They began to
talk in murmurs. The odor of cigarette smoke drifted in to the man and
the woman.
Finally the door through which Father O'Malley and Longorio had passed
opened, and the priest emerged. He was alone. His face was flushed and
damp; his eyes were glowing. He forced the Mexicans out of his way and,
entering the living-room, closed the door behind him.
"Well?" his two friends questioned, anxiously.
"I've done all I can. The rest is out of our hands." The little man sat
down heavily and mopped his forehead.
"What does he say?"
"He told me to come here and wait. I never saw a man so torn, so
distracted."
"Then he is wavering. Oh-h!" Alaire clasped her hands in thanksgiving,
but the Father cautioned her:
"Don't be too sanguine. He is not afraid of consequences. He appears to
have no conscience. He is without mercy and seems lost to shame. I have
never met a man quite like him. Do you know what he feels at this
moment? Chagrin. Yes, mortification raised to the highest pitch, and a
sort of stupefaction that you should prefer another man to him. He
can't understand your lack of taste." Father O'Malley smiled faintly.
"Conceited idiot," Dave growled.
"His humiliation kills him. When I saw that it was useless to appeal to
him on moral grounds, and that threats were unavailing, I took another
course. Something gave me insight into his mind, and the power to talk
as I have never talked before. All in a flash I saw the man's soul laid
bare before me, and--I think I played upon it with some cunning. I
don't remember all I said, for I was inspired, but I appealed to his
vanity and to his conceit, and as I went along I impressed upon him,
over and over, the fact that the world knows we are here and that it
trusts him. He aspires to the Presidency; he believes he is destined to
be Mexico's Dictator; so I painted a picture that surpassed his own
imaginings. He would have been suspicious of mere flattery, so I went
far beyond that and inflamed him with such extravagant visions as only
a child or an unblushing egotist like him could accept. I swelled his
vanity; I inflated his conceit. For a moment, at least, I lifted him
out of himself and raised him to the heights."
From beyond the closed door came Longorio's voice, issuing some command
to his men. A moment passed; then he appeared before the three
Americans. He seemed taller, thinner, more erect and hawklike than
ever. His head was held more proudly and his chest was fuller. A set,
disdainful smile was graven upon his face.
He began by addressing his words directly to Alaire. "Señora," he said,
"I am a man of deep feeling and I scorn deceit. Therefore I offer no
apology for my recent display of emotion. If I have seemed to press my
advances with undue fervor, it is because, at heart, I am as great a
lover as I am a statesman or a soldier. But there are other things than
love. Nature constituted me a leader, and he who climbs high must climb
alone. I offered Chapultepec as a shrine for your beauty. I offered to
share Mexico with you, and I told you that I would not be content with
less than all of you. Well I meant it. Otherwise--I would take you
now." His voice throbbed with a sudden fierce desire, and his long,
lean hands closed convulsively. "You must realize that I have the
courage and the power to defy the world, eh?" He seemed to challenge
denial of this statement, but, receiving none, he went on, fixing his
brilliant, feverish eyes once more upon Alaire. "As a man of sentiment
I am unique; I am different from any you have ever known. I would not
possess a flower without its fragrance. You did not believe me when I
told you that, but I am going to prove it. All your life you are going
to think of me as heroic. Perhaps no patriot in history ever made a
more splendid sacrifice for his country than I make now. Some day the
world will wonder how I had the strength to put aside love and follow
the path of duty."