At the bottom of the knoll his horse fell, and Cassara went over the animal’s head to the ground, but was upon his feet almost as soon as he struck, and running toward the gate. The sentry cried a challenge, but Cassara did not answer. Could not the fool see his uniform, he wondered? And then he would have fallen himself had not the man at the gate thrown out an arm and caught him.
“Your lieutenant!” he gasped.
A corporal came running at the sentry’s cry; he aided the soldier to half-carry, half-drag Cassara toward the barracks-room, in the door of which the comandante was standing, attracted by the sudden uproar. Sergeant Cassara had no time now for the niceties of discipline; his salute was merely the suggestion of one, and he gripped the lieutenant by the arm to keep from falling as the corporal let go of him.
“Private information—from the north!” he managed to gasp.
Cassara was known the length of El Camino Real as a soldier of strength and hardihood, and to see him in this state told the comandante that unusual things were happening. He grasped his inferior around the waist and helped him to get to a private room, where the sergeant sank upon a stool and threw his arms on the table before him to brace himself.
The lieutenant offered a cup of wine and Cassara tossed it off, trying to gather breath enough to speak. With a wave of his hand the lieutenant ordered the other soldiers from the room, then closed the door.
“Now, what is it that brings the famous Sergeant Cassara to our post like a dying man?” he demanded.
“An uprising—greater than any we have yet known! It has just been discovered, barely in time.”
“Gentiles, I suppose?”
“And neophytes!”