“I,” the old publican replied with equal pride, “am Mrs. Colonel 'Enery Jenks, who was your father's chief of hartillery an' 'ad the hextreme honour o' dyin' in front o' the same wall with 'im. By the w'y, 'ow's Mr. Webster?” she added, suddenly remembering the subject closest to her heart just then.
“His wounds are trifling. He'll live, Mrs. Jenks.”
“Well, that's better than gettin' poked in the eye with a sharp stick,” the old dame decided philosophically.
“Do you remember my little sister, Mrs. Jenks?” Ricardo continued. “She was in the palace when Sarros attacked it; she perished there.”
“I believe I 'ave got a slight recollection o' the nipper, sir,” Mother Jenks answered cautiously. To herself she said: “I s'y, 'Enrietta, 'ere's a pretty go. 'E don't know the lamb is livin' an' in the next room! My word, wot a riot w'en 'e meets 'er!”
“I will see you again, Mrs. Jenks. I must have a long talk with you,” Ricardo told her, and passed on into the palace; whereupon Mother Jenks once more fervently implored the Almighty to strike her pink, and the iron restraint of a long, hard, exciting day being relaxed at last, the good soul bowed her gray head in her arms and wept, moving her body from side to side the while and demanding, of no one in particular, a single legitimate reason why she, a blooming old baggage and not fit to live, should be the recipient of such manifold blessings as this day had brought forth.
In the meantime Ricardo, with his hand on the knob of the door leading to the room where Webster was having his wounds dressed, paused suddenly, his attention caught by the sound of a sob, long-drawn and inexpressibly pathetic. He listened and made up his mind that a woman in the room across the entrance-hall was bewailing the death of a loved one who answered to the name of Caliph and John darling. Further eavesdropping convinced him that Caliph, John darling, and Mr. John Stuart Webster were one and the same person, and so he tilted his head on one side like a cock-robin and considered.
“By jingo, that's most interesting,” he decided. “The wounded hero has a sweetheart or a wife—and an American, too. She must be a recent acquisition, because all the time we were together on the steamer coming down here he never spoke of either, despite the fact that we got friendly enough for such confidences. Something funny about this. I'd better sound the old boy before I start passing out words of comfort to that unhappy female.”
He passed on into the room. John Stuart Webster had, by this time, been washed and bandaged, and one of the Sarros servants (for the ex-dictator's retinue still occupied the palace) had, at Doctor Pacheco's command, prepared a guest-chamber upstairs and furnished a nightgown of ample proportions to cover Mr. Webster's bebandaged but otherwise naked person. A stretcher had just arrived, and the wounded man was about to be carried upstairs. The late financial backer of the revolution was looking very pale and dispirited; for once in his life his whimsical, bantering nature was subdued. His eyes were closed, and he did not open them when Ricardo entered.
“Well, I have Sarros,” the latter declared. Webster paid not the slightest attention to this announcement. Ricardo bent over him. “Jack, old boy,” he queried, “do you know a person of feminine persuasion who calls you Caliph?”