"On, on, señora! Merciful Mary!"
"But—but I can't! I—I—"
"Let's carry her!" panted Strawbridge, at the end of his resources, but he knew he could not do it. The run was telling on his own strength.
They were half-way down the calle now, spurring on the last of the señora's endurance. They were running between solidly built walls. Behind them the soldiers were shouting commands to halt! The Spanish girl began to sob.
"I—I'll have to stop, I—can't—go—any—"
At that moment Strawbridge glimpsed a little gap in the wall of houses, the slit-like mouth of a tiny calle. He gasped to the señora:
"Run into that! Here, to the left! Jump in as we pass. Get to the cathedral the best you can! Chica and I will run on!"
The Spanish girl used up the last of her strength to forge ahead of the other two, who ran close to the wall behind her, screening her movements in the gloom. The next moment she disappeared in the narrow opening.
Strawbridge and the griffe girl ran on alone. When the whole party, pursued and pursuers, were well past the hiding-place of the Spanish woman, the girl whispered in a fairly controlled breath, "Let's run off and leave them, señor!"
"Can you?" puffed the drummer, surprised.