Appleby laughed curiously. “I’m afraid Santa Marta will be much more like the other place before the day is through, and it is not a very appropriate simile, Tony. One cannot storm those gates of precious stones.” “Well,” said Tony reflectively, “it’s not a subject either of us know very much about, but Nettie Harding seemed to think one could. We were lounging on the lawn at Low Wood that afternoon, and she was so sure about it that she almost convinced me. She said the gates were made of gold and ivory, and she got the fancy from the song you have heard Hester sing—but no doubt it means the same thing!” Appleby glanced at him sharply, for the light was clearer now, and saw a look in Tony’s face which was new to him. It was curiously quiet in spite of his little smile. Still, he made no answer, and there was silence, until from beyond the dust cloud rose the strident crackle of riflery. “The advance guard are driving in the pickets. We’ll be in the thick of it directly,” he said, and a murmur passed along the company, while the rhythmic tread swelled in a sharp staccato. It was evident to the Sin Verguenza that they had difficult work before them, while a direct attack in daylight was not a manoeuvre they had any great liking for. In this case, however, there was no evading it, for while they knew adherents would flock in from every aldea once they held Santa Marta, it was equally clear that should Candotto’s Peninsulares join hands with Morales they could never seize the town. Haste was also advisable since he would know that an attack was imminent now, and when Maccario’s voice rang out of the dust the pace grew faster while the column drew out in length. Twice a half‐company swung clear and vanished amidst the scattered gardens, and at last the rest flung themselves into the little enclosures between the aloe hedges close outside Santa Marta. Then there was a flashing of pale flame from the crest of every white wall, and Tony stared in astonishment when he saw none of the Sin Verguenza beyond the little handful of men about him in a garden. They were crouching beneath a low wall apparently made of blocks of sun‐baked soil, while Appleby lay behind a clump of aloes close in front of him. Beyond the aloes, the white walls rose glaringly bright with smears of bluish vapor drifting from every opening, though the smoke was thickest about one wide gap between them. As he watched it, oblivious of the rifle in his hand, there was a thin whirling of flame in the midst of the vapor, and a sound that resembled a rapid hammering came sharply through the din. Then a strip of the mud wall crumbled into dust, which made a haze about the garden, and a spurt of flung‐up soil struck him in the face. A man behind him screamed, and while there was a pattering among the bananas close on his right Appleby crawled past him. “A quick‐firer! Morales has two of them, and he has found our range. We’ll get on,” he said.