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?''