Hope confronted him in the doorway. She was sobbing silently.
``Must we leave him,'' she pleaded, ``must we leave him--like
this?''

From the garden there came the sound of hammers ringing on the
iron hinges, and a great crash of noises as the gate fell back
from its fastenings, and the mob rushed over the obstacles upon
which it had fallen. It seemed as if their yells of exultation
and anger must reach even the ears of the dead man.

``They are calling Mendoza,'' Clay whispered, ``he must be with
them. Come, we will have to run for our lives now.''

But before he could guess what Hope was about to do, or could
prevent her, she had slipped past him and picked up Stuart's
sword that had fallen from his wrist to the floor, and laid it on
the soldier's body, and closed his hands upon its hilt. She
glanced quickly about her as though looking for something, and
then with a sob of relief ran to the table, and sweeping it of an
armful of its flowers, stepped swiftly back again to the lounge
and heaped them upon it.

``Come, for God's sake, come!'' Clay called to her in a whisper
from the door.

Hope stood for an instant staring at the young Englishman as the
candle-light flickered over his white face, and then, dropping on
her knees, she pushed back the curly hair from about the boy's
forehead and kissed him. Then, without turning to look again,