said.
“Keep still, Don Ramón,” said the doctor, who with his slim dark hands was even more delicate than a woman. “You have lost much blood. Keep still.”
“Where is Martin?”
“He is outside.”
“How is he?”
“He is dead.”
The dark eyes under the black lashes were perfectly steady and changeless. Then came the voice:
“Pity we did not kill them all. Pity we did not kill them all. We have got to kill them all.—Where is the Señora Inglesa?”
“Here she is.”
His black eyes looked up at Kate. Then more of his consciousness came back.
“Thank you for my life,” he said, closing his eyes. Then: “Put the lamp aside.”
Soldiers were tapping at the glass pane, for the lieutenant. A black little fellow entered, wiping the rain from his black face and pushing