come to rob. They came to murder Don Ramón, you know, Señora! simply to murder Don Ramón. And but for your being here, they would have done it!—Ah, think of it, Señora! Don Ramón is the most precious man in Mexico. It is possible that in the world there is not a man like him. And personally, he hasn’t got enemies. As a man among men, he hasn’t got enemies. No Señora. Not one! But do you know who it will be? the priests, and the Knights of Cortes.”
“Are you sure?” said Kate.
“Sure, Señora!” cried the lieutenant indignantly. “Look! There are seven men dead. Two were the mozos with guns, watching in the zaguan. One was Don Ramón’s own mozo Martin!—ah, what a faithful man, what a brave one! Never will Don Ramón pardon his death. Then moreover, the two men killed on the azotea, and two men in the courtyard, shot by Don Ramón. Besides these, a man whom Martin wounded, who fell and broke his leg, so we have got him. Come and see them, Señora.”
They were down in the wet courtyard. Little fires had been lighted under the sheds, and the little, black, devil-may-care soldiers were crouching round them, with a bunch of peons in blankets standing round. Across the courtyard, horses stamped and jingled their harness. A boy came running with tortillas in a cloth. The dark-faced little soldiers crouched like animals, sprinkled salt on the tortillas, and devoured them with small, white, strong teeth.
Kate saw the great oxen tied in their sheds, lying down, the wagons standing inert. And a little crowd of asses was munching