"Felipe!"
"Yes, Felipe! I believe they called him that."
Longorio strode to the end of the livingroom, flung open the wooden shutters of a window and, leaning far out, whistled sharply on his fingers.
"Oiga! Teniente! Ho, you fellows!" he shouted.
From the darkness a voice answered; a man, evidently on guard, came running.
"Call old Pancho," the general directed. "Tell him to bring me black
Felipe, the fellow with the torn lip. Quick!"
"Yes, general," came the voice; then the metallic rattle of spurs and accoutrements as the sentry trotted away.
Dolores had completely broken down now, and Alaire was trying to comfort her. Their guest remained by the window, frowning. After a time there sounded a murmur of voices, then a shuffling of feet in the hall; Alaire's friend, the old lieutenant, appeared in the doorway, saluting. Behind him were several others.
"Here is Felipe," he announced.
"Bring him in."