terrace near the rocking-chairs, two dead men in a great pool of blood.
One was Ramón! For a moment she went unconscious. Then slowly she crept forward. Ramón had fallen, reeking with blood from his wound, his arms round the body of the other man, who was bleeding too. The second man opened his eyes, wildly, and in a rattling voice, blind and dying, said:
“Patrón!”
It was Martin, Ramón’s own mozo. He was stiffening and dying in Ramón’s arms. And Ramón, lifting him, had made his own wound gush with blood, and had fainted. He lay like dead. But Kate could see the faintest pulse in his neck.
She ran blindly down the stairs, and fought to get the great iron bars from across the door, screaming all the time:
“Come! Somebody! Come to