The general's face was swept by a grimace intended for a smile. "I have
ordered your horses to be saddled."
Dave, who had with difficulty restrained his anger at the fellow's
bombast, was upon the point of speaking when Father O'Malley took the
words out of his mouth:
"Would you send this woman out of her own house into a country
like--like this? Remember the fortune in cattle you have already
taken--"
Longorio broke in with a snarl: "Is it my fault that the country is in
arms? Military necessity compels me to remain here. I consider myself
magnanimous. I--" His voice cracked, and he made a despairing, violent
gesture. "Go, before I change my mind."
Dave signaled to the others, and Alaire slipped away to make herself
ready. During the uncomfortable silence which succeeded her departure,
Longorio paced the room, keeping his eyes resolutely turned away from
Law.
"Do you mean that I, too, may go?" O'Malley inquired.
"What good are you to me?" snapped the general.
"You will give us safe conduct?"
"Be still, priest!" Longorio glared at the speaker, clasping and
unclasping his fists behind his back.
With the sound of hoofs outside, Alaire and Dolores appeared, and the
Mexican straightened himself with an effort.
"Adios, señora!" he said, with a stiff bow. "We have had a pleasant
friendship and a thrilling flirtation, eh? I shall never cease to
regret that Fate interrupted at such an interesting moment. Adios!
Adios!" He bowed formally, in turn to Dave and to the priest, then
resumed his pacing, with his hands at his back and his brow furrowed as
if in a struggle with affairs of greater moment than this.
But when he heard the outside door creak shut behind them his
indifference vanished and he halted with head turned in an effort to
catch the last sounds of their departure. His face was like tallow now,
his lips were drawn back from his teeth as if in supreme agony. A
moment and the hoofbeats had died away. Then Longorio slipped his leash.
He uttered a cry--a hoarse, half-strangled shriek that tore his throat.
He plucked the collar from his neck as if it choked him; he beat his
breast. Seizing whatever article his eye fell upon, he tore and crushed
it; he swept the table clean of its queer Spanish bric-à-brac, and
trampled the litter under his heels. Spying a painting of a saint upon
the wall, he ran to it, ripped it from its nail, and, raising it over
his head, smashed frame and glass, cursing all saints, all priests, and
churchly people. Havoc followed him as he raged about the place
wreaking his fury upon inanimate objects. When he had well-nigh wrecked
the contents of the room, and when his first paroxysm had spent its
violence, he hurled himself into a chair, writhing in agony. He bit his
wrists, he pounded his fists, he kicked; finally he sprawled full
length upon the floor, clawing at the cool, smooth tiles until his
nails bled.
"Christ! O Christ!" he screamed.
The sound of his blasphemies reached the little group of soldiers who
had lingered curiously outside, and they listened open-mouthed. One by
one they crossed themselves and stole away into the darkness, muttering.