les with hands numbed
with cold. At elbow and knee their rags of uniforms flapped like bunches
of ribbons at a fair.

"In the garden!" whispered Luis Fernandez to Cabrera.

"To the garden!" commanded the general, lighting a new cigarette and
puffing vigorously, "and at this point I may as well bid you good-bye. I
wish our acquaintance had been pleasanter. But the fortune of war,
gentlemen! My mother had not so long time to say her prayers at the
hands of your friend Nogueras--and she was a woman and old, gentlemen. I
doubt not you know as well how to die as she?"

And they did. Not one of them uttered a word. John Mortimer, seeing
there was now no chance of making his thousand pounds, set an example
of unbending dignity. He comported himself, indeed, exactly as he would
have done on his marriage day. That is, he knew that the eyes of many
were upon him, and he resolved not to shame the performance. So he went
through his part with the exact English mixture of awkward shyness and
sulky self-respect which would have carried him creditably to the altar
in any English church.

Etienne faced his death like the son of an ancient race, and a good
Catholic. He could not have a confessor, but he said his prayers,
committed his soul to God and the Virgin, and faced the black muzzles
not greatly abashed.

As for El Sarria, death was his _metier_, his familiar friend. He had
lived with him for years, as a man with a wife, rising up and lying
down, eating and breathing in his company. "The fortune of war," as
Cabrera said. El Sarria was ready. Dolores and her babe were safe. He
asked no more.

And not less readily fell into line Rollo Blair. A little apart he stood
as they made ready to march out of the presence of the Carlist general.
John Mortimer was already on his way, carefully and conscientiously
ordering his going, that he might not in these last things disgrace his
nation and his upbringing. Etienne and Ramon were following him. Still
the young Scot lingered. Cabrera, nervously fingering his accoutrement
and signing papers at a folding table, found time to eye him with
curiosity.

"Did he mean to make a last plea for mercy?" he thought.

Cabrera smiled contemptuously. A friend of Nogueras might know Ramon
Cabrera of Tortosa better. But Rollo had no such thought. He had in his
fingers Etienne's last slip of Alcoy paper, in which the cigarette of
Spain, unfailing comforter, is wrapped. To fill it he had crumbled his