, distinguished-looking man, wearing a brilliant uniform, his
breast decorated with many orders, now appeared on the scene. He shouted
something, and the attacking force redoubled their efforts. He raised a
revolver, and took deliberate aim at Dom Corria. Coke saw him, and his
bulldog pluck combined with avarice to overcome his common sense.
Without thought of the consequences, he sprang into the swaying mob and
pulled De Sylva aside. A bullet smashed into the wall behind them.

"Look out, mister!" he bellowed. "'Ere's a blighter 'oo wants to finish
you quick!"

De Sylva's glance sought his adversary. He produced a revolver which
hitherto had remained hidden in a pocket. Perhaps its bullets were not
meant for an enemy. He fired at the tall man. A violent swerve of the
two irregular ranks of soldiers screened each from the other. An opening
offered, and the man who had singled out Dom Corria for his special
vengeance fired again. The bullet struck Coke in the breast. The
valiant little skipper staggered, and sank to the floor. His fiery eyes
gazed up into Verity's.

"Damme if I ain't hulled!" he roared, his voice loud and harsh as if he
were giving some command from the bridge in a gale of wind.

David dropped to his knees.

"For Gawd's sake, Jimmie!" he moaned.

"Yes, I've got it. Sarve me dam well right, too! No business to go
ag'in me own pore old ship. Look 'ere, Verity, I'm done for! If you get
away from this rotten muss, see to my missus an' the girls. If you
don't--d--n you----"

"Fire!" shouted a strong English voice from without. A withering volley
crashed through the open windows. Full twenty of the assailants fell,
Dom Miguel de Barraca among them. There was an instant of terrible
silence, as between the shocks of an earthquake.

[Illustration: A withering volley crashed through the window]

"Now, come on!" shouted the same voice, and Philip Hozier rushed into the
ballroom, followed by his scouts and a horde of Brazilian regulars. No
one not actually an eye-witness of that thrilling spectacle would believe
that a fight waged with such determined malevolence could stop so
suddenly as did that fray in Las Flores. It was true, now as ever, that
men of a mixed race cannot withstand the unforeseen. Dom Miguel fallen,
and his cohort decimated by the leaden storm that tore in at them from an
unexpected quarter, the rest fled without another blow. They raced madly
for their horses, t