Tony looked at him as though he scarcely recognized him, and smiled. “I think you’re wrong, and perhaps it isn’t necessary. That song is jingling in my head again. ‘If you but touch with your finger tips those ivory gates and golden.’ It sounds easy,” he said. His head sank back on the pillow, and for five long minutes there was silence in the room. Then Tony sighed, and his fingers closed feebly on Appleby’s hand. “It’s very hot in the sun here, and it was yesterday when I had a meal,” he said. “Still, I shall find Bernard. Now they’re marching on Santa Marta in open fours. They’re going in—nothing could stop the Sin Verguenza—but you can’t open those gates with a volley. It isn’t necessary.” He said nothing more, and when another half‐hour had dragged by Appleby rose, and with gentle force drew his hand away. Then he went out, shivering a little and treading softly, for he knew that the soul of Tony Palliser, who had sinned and made such reparation as was permitted him, was knocking at the gates which are made of precious stones. XXXII — APPLEBY LEAVES SANTA MARTA THE sun was low, and the town lay in grateful shadow when Appleby walked slowly down the calle that leads out of Santa Marta. He was dressed plainly in white duck, and no longer carried a rifle, while he scarcely seemed to hear the observations of Harper, who walked at his side. His brown face was a trifle grave, and Maccario, who went with them, smiled dryly when he noticed that once or twice he sighed. Stone pavements and white walls were hot still, but the dazzling glare had faded, and the street was thronged with citizens enjoying the faint coolness of the evening. Here and there one of them greeted the little group with signs of respect, but Appleby scarcely noticed them. Looking straight before him he saw the shattered lattices, and the scars and stains of smoke on the white walls which marked the scene of the last grim struggle with Morales. Morales lay at rest in the little campo santo, and in a few more minutes Appleby would in all probability have turned his back forever on Santa Marta. It was with confused feelings, through which there ran a keen regret, he remembered what had befallen him there. Then, as they approached the strip of uneven pavement hastily flung down on the spot where the Sin Verguenza had only a few days ago swept over the barricade, he stopped a moment as brown‐faced men with rifles, regardless of discipline—which was, however, seldom much in evidence among the Sin Verguenza—thronged about him. Amidst cries and gesticulations they thumped his shoulders and wrung his hands, while once more Appleby wondered whether he had decided wisely as he recognized the sincerity of the good will in their dark eyes. He had fought with them, faced imminent peril, borne with anxiety and short‐ comings, and feasted riotously, in their company, and now he found it harder to part from them than it would have been from more estimable men.