Alcantara puckered his lips teasingly, looking down at her. He marked the plump, well rounded figure, the clear, copper-coloured skin with its scarlet touches on mouth and cheek, the long braid, the full, girlish throat.
“You go,” he said.
Child as she was, she knew the men of Venezuela, and she saw and understood his look.
“I go for revenge, Señor general,” she declared meaningly. “If you are so good as to allow me to follow you, I—I will be safe? Else I walk far in the rear—alone.”
“As you like,” answered Alcantara. “There will be two other women along—Maria, who goes with one of my coroneles, and La Negrita, the woman of the black general, Pedro Tovar. You may march with them.”
“And when will you start?” she asked eagerly. “When?”
“We thirst for the blood of Ricardo Villegas,” laughed Alcantara. “Well——”
A squad was approaching, led by a determined-looking officer. Two of his men carried large-calibre German Mausers, the third had a Mauser and a canvas money bag, and the fourth a Mauser and a rope.
“Comisario,” said the general, as the latter shuffled near and saluted, “what raciones have you collected?”
An expression of defeat spread upon the commissary’s countenance. He shook his head dejectedly, and, reaching round, seized and brought forward the money bag.