“Oh, tell me, Bob, please! My heart’s all suffocky, an’ I can’t breathe!”
“You ’low I couldn’t rest. I kep’ a thinkin’ o’ that old vener’ble up thar, a takin’ his last look at a property ’at had be’n his ’n, er his folks, sence way back—an’ the lonesomeness an’ all—an’ I couldn’t stan’ it. So I started just arter moon-rise, an’ clumb up ag’in, callin’ myself names all the time fer a fool. An’ when I got to the very heart o’ the place—thar he lay, sleepin’ quiet an’ a’most a smilin’,—right thar in that den!”
“But you waked him up, Bob? Quick—didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. Perhaps I had a job, though! ’Twas a close call fer the old caballero. An’ when I’d rousted him a little, ye should a heered him pitch inter me! ’Cause I wouldn’t let him lay still thar an’ die o’ rattlesnake bite!”
“Why, Bob? Why should he wish to die?”
“Fer your sake, Little Un; to make you rich an’ happy an’ ever’thing. An’ I ’low the notion was jest as noble as if he’d be’n let ter finish it up as he meant.”
“Well? The result?” asked Mr. Calthorp, impatiently.
“Well, he’ll live, I reckin; but his old age won’t be not very flourishin’ ner green-bay-tree like. ’Twas an even chance, ’bout. I carried him down on my back, an’ thar happened ter be an old Indian on hand ’at done his level best; an’ he’ll live. So they think.
“But we had a tussle with him, fust. An’ not till Lord Plunkett himself, who had come round that way ag’in, was lugged inter the room ter hear the hull story, an’ ter promise ever’thing should be done same as if he died, would Sutry consent ter take the stuff old Pueblo forced down his throat. But, to all intents an’ purposes, he was a martyr, Sutry Vives was.”
The graphic story cast over them all an awed and solemn feeling which made speech seem impossible. Till, after awhile, a half-charred stick fell into the coals, and Mary Jane looked up through her tears. “Greater love hath no man than this,” said she, softly; and even Resolved failed to sniff.