So, instead of a sharp command, he asked, ``What is it?'' in surprise, and stared at them wondering.He could not or would not comprehend, even though he saw that those in the front rank were pushing back and those behind were urging them forward.The muzzles of their carbines were directed at every point, and on their faces fear and hate and cowardice were written in varying likenesses.
``What does this mean?'' Stuart demanded, sharply.``What are you waiting for?''
Clay had just reached the top of the stairs.He saw Madame Alvarez and Hope coming toward him, and at the sight of Hope he gave an exclamation of relief.
Then his eyes turned and fell on the tableau below, on Stuart's back, as he stood confronting the men, and on their scowling upturned faces and half-lifted carbines.Clay had lived for a longer time among Spanish-Americans than had the English subaltern, or else he was the quicker of the two to believe in evil and ingratitude, for he gave a cry of warning, and motioned the women away.
``Stuart!'' he cried.``Come away; for God's sake, what are you doing? Come back!''
The Englishman started at the sound of his friend's voice, but he did not turn his head.He began to descend the stairs slowly, a step at a time, staring at the mob so fiercely that they shrank back before the look of wounded pride and anger in his eyes.
Those in the rear raised and levelled their rifles.Without taking his eyes from theirs, Stuart drew his revolver, and with his sword swinging from its wrist-strap, pointed his weapon at the mass below him.
``What does this mean?'' he demanded.``Is this mutiny?''
A voice from the rear of the crowd of men shrieked: ``Death to the Spanish woman.Death to all traitors.Long live Mendoza,'' and the others echoed the cry in chorus.
Clay sprang down the broad stairs calling, ``Come to me;'' but before he could reach Stuart, a woman's voice rang out, in a long terrible cry of terror, a cry that was neither a prayer nor an imprecation, but which held the agony of both.Stuart started, and looked up to where Madame Alvarez had thrown herself toward him across the broad balustrade of the stairway.She was silent with fear, and her hand clutched at the air, as she beckoned wildly to him.Stuart stared at her with a troubled smile and waved his empty hand to reassure her.The movement was final, for the men below, freed from the reproach of his eyes, flung up their carbines and fired, some wildly, without placing their guns at rest, and others steadily and aiming straight at his heart.
As the volley rang out and the smoke drifted up the great staircase, the subaltern's hands tossed high above his head, his body sank into itself and toppled backward, and, like a tired child falling to sleep, the defeated soldier of fortune dropped back into the outstretched arms of his friend.
Clay lifted him upon his knee, and crushed him closer against his breast with one arm, while he tore with his free hand at the stock about the throat and pushed his fingers in between the buttons of the tunic.They came forth again wet and colored crimson.
``Stuart!'' Clay gasped.``Stuart, speak to me, look at me!''
He shook the body in his arms with fierce roughness, peering into the face that rested on his shoulder, as though he could command the eyes back again to light and life.``Don't leave me!'' he said.``For God's sake, old man, don't leave me!''
But the head on his shoulder only sank the closer and the body stiffened in his arms.Clay raised his eyes and saw the soldiers still standing, irresolute and appalled at what they had done, and awe-struck at the sight of the grief before them.
Clay gave a cry as terrible as the cry of a woman who has seen her child mangled before her eyes, and lowering the body quickly to the steps, he ran at the scattering mass below him.As he came they fled down the corridor, shrieking and calling to their friends to throw open the gates and begging them to admit the mob.When they reached the outer porch they turned, encouraged by the touch of numbers, and halted to fire at the man who still followed them.
Clay stopped, with a look in his eyes which no one who knew them had ever seen there, and smiled with pleasure in knowing himself a master in what he had to do.And at each report of his revolver one of Stuart's assassins stumbled and pitched heavily forward on his face.Then he turned and walked slowly back up the hall to the stairway like a man moving in his sleep.He neither saw nor heard the bullets that bit spitefully at the walls about him and rattled among the glass pendants of the great chandeliers above his head.When he came to the step on which the body lay he stooped and picked it up gently, and holding it across his breast, strode on up the stairs.MacWilliams and Langham were coming toward him, and saw the helpless figure in his arms.
``What is it?'' they cried; ``is he wounded, is he hurt?''
``He is dead,'' Clay answered, passing on with his burden.``Get Hope away.''
Madame Alvarez stood with the girl's arms about her, her eyes closed and her figure trembling.
