Walthew waited for the peons, and then turned toward calle Pinastro, where he had arranged to meet Grahame. He had now three companions whom he thought he could trust, but they were unarmed, except for their knives. Gomez had sent the order for Grahame's release, but if he could rearrest him and seize Walthew without causing a tumult, he would do so. They had only five or six minutes' start. It did not look as if they could get out of the town in time, and Walthew felt fiercely impatient. For all that, he stopped at the corner of a street when one of the others touched him.
There was a lighted café near by, and a girl stood on the pavement near its open front. She was dressed very plainly in white, with a dark shawl fastened round her head, like a peasant girl, but he felt a sudden thrill as she turned toward him. Although he could not see her very well, he knew it was Blanca. When he cautiously crossed the street she drew him back into the shadow, but he saw her look of relief.
"You have succeeded!" she said softly. "Where is Mr. Grahame?"
"I am to meet him at Ramon Silva's."
"You cannot go this way; there are two rurales farther on. But it would be dangerous to turn back now."
She put her hand on his arm, as if to detain him while she considered what to do, and Walthew looked about, knowing that he could trust her knowledge of the town. The street was narrow and dark except where the light from the café shone across it. A few citizens sat round the small tables, and several shadowy figures loitered in the gloom outside. Walthew thought they had come with the girl, but there was nothing in their attitude to suggest that they had any particular business in the neighborhood, and his own followers had stopped at the corner.
Suddenly a clatter of hoofs broke out. Some one was riding fast toward them. Walthew felt Blanca's hand tighten warningly on his arm as she drew back a pace or two. The sound grew louder; there was a hoarse shout like a sentry's challenge, and an answer which Walthew imagined satisfied the rurales on guard; and then a mounted man rode into the stream of light.
The mule was foul with sweat and dust, and a trickle of blood ran down its shoulder; the rider's face was pale and set. Walthew's eyes rested on him for only a second, but he knew the fellow was English or American. There was an angry cry in the background, and a stealthy figure, outlined against a blank, white wall, crossed the street. The mounted man was obviously the President's messenger; but Walthew, having seen his grim, tired look, and the way he drove the worn-out mule furiously down the street, felt a touch of half-admiring sympathy. After all, the fellow was white, and was gallantly doing what he had undertaken.
A moment more and Walthew saw something glisten in the hand of the stealthy figure that seemed ready to spring. He was only a yard away and, acting on impulse, he stumbled as if by accident and fell against the man. The knife dropped with a jingle, and the messenger dashed past, throwing Walthew a quick glance as he went.
An angry murmur broke out, and several of the loiterers closed in on Walthew, while men left the café to see what was going on, and there were quick footsteps farther off in the gloom. Remembering the need for haste and that Grahame might be in danger, Walthew half regretted his rashness, but as he wondered what to do Blanca ran to his side.