’Yes, I have,’ Gerald smiled, ’three thousand men round about the same number. I don’t believe I have more—hundreds have gone off to their homes with loot. I tell you what. Old Zorilla isn’t beaten till he’s dead, and he may be up to any tricks to-night. It’s seven miles to El Castellar and it’s eight to San Fernando, and he’ll lose his job and his reputation if he falls back on the fort. He’s lost his guns, and he’ll get ’em back, and San Fernando too, if he dies for it. I know the dear old chap.’ ’I thought you’d won,’ I said, feeling very worried. ’Oh, bother! You’ve never won in this country. The more you win, the more enemies you make—there are plenty of people, on our side, who want me out of it. That is why those chaps wouldn’t obey you this morning—they’re as jealous as thieves. I run the show, and they don’t like it—a good many of them don’t—not the men, the officers. They want their siesta in the middle of the day, and eight hours’ sleep besides—it’s the custom of the country—they don’t get it. They’ve always run revolutions on those lines, and I don’t.’ He’d dressed himself now and brushed his yellow hair well back. ’That’s better; come along and have some grub.’ Well, I hadn’t any appetite, but he had—and ate a jolly good meal in spite of all the orderlies and officers coming and going. He did want to dine on the open verandah, close to the road, but I thought of that little beast creeping up with the revolver, and managed to get him into an inside room, by complaining of the cold. The air was so still that all the time he was eating we could hear firing going on far away in the forest, but that didn’t interfere with his appetite in the least. ’Zorilla’s not made a move yet,’ he said at last. ’Come and have a game of billiards,’ and we did actually play on a French table with balls as big as oranges, in a room overlooking the sea, the cool breeze blowing through wide-open windows, and the noise of rifle-shots almost drowned by the lazy noise of the water on the beach. José, who seemed to follow Gerald about like a dog, squatted in a corner, a young insurgent officer scored for us, and Gerald, playing stiffly with his bad arm, was as keen on beating me as if we had been in the pater’s billiard-room at home. We were half-way through the game, and he was piling up cannon after cannon, sprawling over the table to make his strokes, and I was standing at his side, when I suddenly heard something snap outside, saw the insurgent officer look out—fright on his face—turned my head, and there was that little beast, with a joyful smile on his ugly face, pointing a revolver straight through the window at Gerald.