sful with the civic authorities. Six
muscular, nimble policemen overpowered him and conveyed him,
triumphantly but warily, to jail. "_El Diablo Colorado_" they dubbed
him, and derided the military for its defeat.

Dicky, with the rest of the prisoners, could look out through
the barred door at the grass of the little plaza, at a row of
orange trees and the red tile roofs and 'dobe walls of a line of
insignificant stores.

At sunset along a path across this plaza came a melancholy procession
of sad-faced women bearing plantains, cassaba, bread and fruit--each
coming with food to some wretch behind those bars to whom she still
clung and furnished the means of life. Twice a day--morning and
evening--they were permitted to come. Water was furnished to her
compulsory guests by the republic, but no food.

That evening Dicky's name was called by the sentry, and he stepped
before the bars of the door. There stood his little saint, a black
mantilla draped about her head and shoulders, her face like glorified
melancholy, her clear eyes gazing longingly at him as if they might
draw him between the bars to her. She brought a chicken, some
oranges, _dulces_ and a loaf of white bread. A soldier inspected the
food, and passed it in to Dicky. Pasa spoke calmly, as she always
did, briefly, in her thrilling, flute-like tones. "Angel of my life,"
she said, "let it not be long that thou art away from me. Thou
knowest that life is not a thing to be endured with thou not at
my side. Tell me if I can do aught in this matter. If not, I will
wait--a little while. I come again in the morning."

Dicky, with his shoes removed so as not to disturb his fellow
prisoners, tramped the floor of the jail half the night condemning
his lack of money and the cause of it--whatever that might have been.
He knew very well that money would have bought his release at once.

For two days succeeding Pasa came at the appointed times and brought
him food. He eagerly inquired each time if a letter or package had
come for him, and she mournfully shook her head.

On the morning of the third day she brought only a small loaf of
bread. There were dark circles under her eyes. She seemed as calm as
ever.

"By jingo," said Dicky, who seemed to speak in English or Spanish as
the whim seized him, "this is dry provender, _muchachita_. Is this
the best you can dig up for a fellow?"

Pasa looked at him as a mother looks at a beloved but capricious
babe.

"Think bett