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.