n ever."

Decoud turned half round in his chair, and asked, "Is there any bread
here?"

Linda's dark head was shaken negatively in response, above the fair head
of her sister nestling on her breast.

"You couldn't get me some bread?" insisted Decoud. The child did not
move; he saw her large eyes stare at him very dark from the corner.
"You're not afraid of me?" he said.

"No," said Linda, "we are not afraid of you. You came here with Gian'
Battista."

"You mean Nostromo?" said Decoud.

"The English call him so, but that is no name either for man or beast,"
said the girl, passing her hand gently over her sister's hair.

"But he lets people call him so," remarked Decoud.

"Not in this house," retorted the child.

"Ah! well, I shall call him the Capataz then."

Decoud gave up the point, and after writing steadily for a while turned
round again.

"When do you expect him back?" he asked.

"After he brought you here he rode off to fetch the Senor Doctor from
the town for mother. He will be back soon."

"He stands a good chance of getting shot somewhere on the road," Decoud
murmured to himself audibly; and Linda declared in her high-pitched
voice--

"Nobody would dare to fire a shot at Gian' Battista."

"You believe that," asked Decoud, "do you?"

"I know it," said the child, with conviction. "There is no one in this
place brave enough to attack Gian' Battista."

"It doesn't require much bravery to pull a trigger behind a bush,"
muttered Decoud to himself. "Fortunately, the night is dark, or there
would be but little chance of saving the silver of the mine."

He turned again to his pocket-book, glanced back through the pages, and
again started his pencil.

"That was the position yesterday, after the Minerva with the fugitive
President had gone out of harbour, and the rioters had been driven back
into the side lanes of the town. I sat on the steps of the cathedral
with Nostromo, after sending out the cable message for the information
of a more or less attentive world. Strangely enough, though the offices
of the Cable Company are in the same building as the Porvenir, the mob,
which has thrown my presses out of the window and scattered the type all
over the Plaza, has been kept from interfering with the instruments
on the other side of the courtyard. As I sat talking with Nostromo,
Bernhardt, the telegraphist, came out from under the Arcades with a
piece of paper in his hand. The little man had tied himse