The caballero laughed wildly, hurled his poniard at the nearest Indian, stumbled into the dark tunnel and swung shut the section of the wall. They could hear the hostiles crashing against it on the other side.
They could not see each other in the darkness, yet Señorita Anita guessed that he was bowing before her; and there was the ring of proud victory in his voice when he spoke:
“Señorita, I have kept my promise—I have slain this man you called Rojerio Rocha. ’Ware my arm—it is wet! Perspiration—again—señorita!”
Quiet in the tunnel for a moment, save for the caballero’s heavy breathing and the girl’s gasps, as she still clung to his arm while he leaned against the dirt wall trying to recover breath and strength.
In the guest house the hostiles were shrieking news of the fact that their leader had been slain, and telling by whom, and screeches of rage came from them as they hammered against the strong adobe wall, some searching in vain for a way of opening the aperture, others doubting whether the aperture had been there. Some, superstitious, began to creep away, thinking there was a ghost somewhere in this business.
They could hear, too, the roaring of flames from the burning buildings, and the volleys of shots continued, showing that the defenders of the mission still kept up the unequal battle.
“You saved me—saved me,” Anita was breathing.
“I merely kept my promise, señorita. Thank you for remaining in the guest house—for your faith in my words.”
“Yet I doubted at times,” she said.
“No more than natural, since the words were spoken by such a worthless being as myself.”