she placed her hand in Clay's and he ran with her, dragging her
behind him down the length of the hall, just as the mob entered
it on the floor below them and filled the palace with their
shouts of triumph.

As the sun sank lower its light fell more dimly on the lonely
figure in the vast diningDhall, and as the gloom deepened there,
the candles burned with greater brilliancy, and the faces of the
portraits shone more clearly.

They seemed to be staring down less sternly now upon the
white mortal face of the brother-in-arms who had just joined
them.

One who had known him among his own people would have seen in the
attitude and in the profile of the English soldier a likeness to
his ancestors of the Crusades who lay carved in stone in the
village church, with their faces turned to the sky, their
faithful hounds waiting at their feet, and their hands pressed
upward in prayer.

And when, a moment later, the half-crazed mob of men and boys
swept into the great room, with Mendoza at their head, something
of the pathos of the young Englishman's death in his foreign
place of exile must have touched them, for they stopped appalled
and startled, and pressed back upon their fellows, with eager
whispers. The Spanish-American General strode boldly forward,
but his eyes lowered before the calm, white face, and either
because the lighted candles and the flowers awoke in him some
memory of the great Church that had nursed him, or because the