"No, my lady, I go—you take the news to camp." And before she could detain him the boy turned at a sharp angle and plunged into the deeper blackness of the chaparral.
*****
A long nightmare intervened between their parting and the time when the half-dead boy clung to the saddle of the patrol and whispered to him:
"Keep to the open, señor; there are men with knives in the chaparral! Help is coming!"
Then, somehow, everything was blotted out for Riego.
When consciousness came again to the boy, the cool air of the dawn was choked with dust clouds till he could not see ten feet before him and his ears were nearly bursting with the thunder-beat of frantic hoofs. Dim horses were rearing and plunging against the reddening dawn. There were shouts and cries and firing! Firing!
Who was losing? Who was winning?
Dear God, Alva's men were sweeping back across the Rio Grande!
One little frightened boy had saved the day for the country that had given him refuge from oppression.
But what was that? A call for help? Whose voice was that?