Quentin smiled. “Right now I can’t, but maybe in another six months’ time I might be glad to have had the experience.”
“No, that couldn’t work with me. Why should it happen to us? Why must it be us, down here?”
“Why should it be anyone else? I’m not scared what will happen to us. Are you?”
Her face suddenly twisted, and she began to cry. “Yes, I’m scared. I feel that we’ll never get away. It is because I was such a fool. You’ve got to suffer because of me.”
He went over to her and sat by her side. “It’s not like that,” he said, giving her his handkerchief; “you’ll come out of it all right and so will I. In a few days you’ll be looking back on this as a swell adventure and something to tell your friends about.”
His arm went round her and she relaxed against him. They sat like that for a long time until she fell asleep.
5
It was just after midnight when things began to happen. The sound of shooting and distant shouting became ominously nearer. Myra woke with a start as three rifle-shots crashed out above them. She gave a little scream and looked wildly round the dim cellar. She could just make out Quentin kneeling at the door, watching the stairs; the light reflected on the barrel of his .38. She scrambled over to him. “What is it?” she asked.
“Something’s happenin’,” he said. “Maybe the natives have found out that Fuentes is here.”
Again rifle-shots came from upstairs, and they could hear someone shouting orders feverishly in Spanish. Heavy boots thudded as soldiers ran about taking up positions. Sudden yells and shouts came from the garden. Quentin eased his position. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess they’ve come to smoke him out. Listen to that.”