“For, should anything happen to me,” he explained, “you boys must blow up the wall, and you must know just when you are to do it. Roddy knows how to do it, and,” he added to Peter, “I’ll explain it to you while we’re at dinner.”
They left Roddy on his knees, busily plying his oil-can, and crossed the garden. In the patio they found the table ready for dinner, and two lamps casting a cheerful light upon the white cloth and flashing from the bottle of red Rioja.
As they seated themselves, one of the stray bullets that were singing above the housetops dislodged a tile, and the pieces of red clay fell clattering into the court-yard. Peter reached for the claret and, with ostentatious slowness, filled McKildrick’s glass.
“Dynasties may come,” he said, “and dynasties may go; but I find one always dines.”
“Why not?” replied McKildrick. “Napoleon said an army is a collection of stomachs. Why should you and I pretend to be better soldiers than Napoleon’s?”
As a signal to the kitchen he clapped his hands; but the servant who answered came not from the kitchen, but from the street. His yellow skin was pale with fright. He gasped and pointed into the shadow at a soldier who followed him. The man wore the uniform of a hospital steward and on his arm the badge of the Red Cross. He stepped forward and, glancing with concern from Peter to McKildrick, saluted mechanically.
“Doctor Vicenti!” he exclaimed; “he wishes to see you. He is outside on a stretcher. We are taking him to the hospital, but he made us bring him here first.” The man shook his head sharply. “He is dying!” he said.
In this sudden threat of disaster to their plan the thought of both the conspirators was first for Rojas.
“My God!” cried Peter, and stared helplessly at the older man.
“Dying?” protested McKildrick. “I saw him an hour ago; he was——”