yet we used to prevail against the oppressor," he concluded, proudly.

His animation fell; the slight gesture of his hand expressed
discouragement; but he added that he had asked one of the sergeants to
show him the new rifle. There was no such weapon in his fighting days;
and if Barrios could not--

"Yes, yes," broke in Don Jose, almost trembling with eagerness. "We are
safe. The good Senor Viola is a man of experience. Extremely deadly--is
it not so? You have accomplished your mission admirably, my dear
Martin."

Decoud, lolling back moodily, contemplated old Viola.

"Ah! Yes. A man of experience. But who are you for, really, in your
heart?"

Mrs. Gould leaned over to the children. Linda had brought out a glass of
water on a tray, with extreme care; Giselle presented her with a bunch
of flowers gathered hastily.

"For the people," declared old Viola, sternly.

"We are all for the people--in the end."

"Yes," muttered old Viola, savagely. "And meantime they fight for you.
Blind. Esclavos!"

At that moment young Scarfe of the railway staff emerged from the
door of the part reserved for the Signori Inglesi. He had come down to
headquarters from somewhere up the line on a light engine, and had had
just time to get a bath and change his clothes. He was a nice boy, and
Mrs. Gould welcomed him.

"It's a delightful surprise to see you, Mrs. Gould. I've just come down.
Usual luck. Missed everything, of course. This show is just over, and I
hear there has been a great dance at Don Juste Lopez's last night. Is it
true?"

"The young patricians," Decoud began suddenly in his precise English,
"have indeed been dancing before they started off to the war with the
Great Pompey."

Young Scarfe stared, astounded. "You haven't met before," Mrs. Gould
intervened. "Mr. Decoud--Mr. Scarfe."

"Ah! But we are not going to Pharsalia," protested Don Jose, with
nervous haste, also in English. "You should not jest like this, Martin."

Antonia's breast rose and fell with a deeper breath. The young engineer
was utterly in the dark. "Great what?" he muttered, vaguely.

"Luckily, Montero is not a Caesar," Decoud continued. "Not the two
Monteros put together would make a decent parody of a Caesar." He
crossed his arms on his breast, looking at Senor Avellanos, who had
returned to his immobility. "It is only you, Don Jose, who are a genuine
old Roman--vir Romanus--eloquent and inflexible."

Since he had heard the name of Montero