But no one else shared in his calmness. The bursting shells had driven the people from their houses, and they were screaming through the streets, as though an earthquake had shaken the city. Even the palace was in an uproar. The scout, as he entered it, shouting for the President’s horse, had told the story to our men, and they came running to the great doors, fastening their accoutrements as they ran. Outside, even as Laguerre had been speaking, the people had gathered in a great circle, whispering and gesticulating, pointing at us, at the dying horse, at the shells that swung above us, at the flag of Alvarez which floated from Pecachua. When I spurred my horse forward, with the scout at my side, there was a sullen silence. The smiles, the raised hats, the cheers were missing, and I had but turned my back on them when a voice shouted, “Viva Alvarez!” I swung in my saddle, and pulled out my sword. I thought it was only the bravado of some impudent fellow who needed a lesson. But it was a signal, for as I turned I saw the native guard spring like one man upon our sergeant and drive their bayonets into his throat. He went down with a dozen of the dwarf-like negroes stabbing and kicking at him, and the mob ran shrieking upon the door of the palace. On the instant I forgot everything except Laguerre. I had only one thought, to get to him, to place myself at his side. I pushed my horse among the people, beating at the little beasts with my sword. But the voice I knew best of all called my name from just above my head, and I looked up and saw Laguerre with Aiken and Webster on the iron balcony of the palace. Laguerre’s face was white and set. “Captain Macklin!” he cried. “What does this mean? Obey your orders. You have my orders. Obey my orders.” “I can’t,” I cried. “This is an attack upon you! They will kill you!” At the moment I spoke our men fired a scattering volley at the mob, and swung to the great gates. The mob answered their volley with a dozen pistol-shots, and threw itself forward. Still looking up, I saw Laguerre clasp his hands to his throat, and fall back upon Webster’s shoulder, but he again instantly stood upright and motioned me fiercely with his arm. “Go,” he cried. “Bring the gatlings here, and all the men. If you delay we lose the palace. Obey my orders,” he again commanded, with a second fierce gesture. The movement was all but fatal. The wound in his throat tore apart, his head fell forward and his eyes closed. I saw the blood spreading and dyeing the gold braid. But he straightened himself and leaned forward. His eyes opened, and, holding himself erect with one hand on the railing of the balcony, he stretched the other over me, as though in benediction. “Go, Royal!” he cried, “and--God bless you!” VI