News of the doctor's death soon reached the army, and the colonel's eyes were partially opened to his foolishness. He returned to his quarters, and tried to drown his misgivings in drink. Soon he was as reckless and crazy as ever. It was not a game for a sober man to play with any chance of success. Penthouse, for it was really he, cursed his luck when he heard of his deed, but not so much in disgust at having killed a harmless stranger as in having missed Hemming. Then he steadied his nerves with a glass of brandy, and encouraged the army to fresh efforts.
In the afternoon, Hemming opened the front door, and stared at the men on the veranda. His left arm was in a sling. The troopers straightened up at sight of him, and one even went so far as to toss away his cigarette. The slim lieutenant, with the weakness for golf, bowed low.
"While you are waiting for that money," said Hemming, "will you be kind enough to ask some of your men to dig a grave over there?" He pointed with his hand. The lieutenant gave the order. Then he turned to Hemming.
"We regret the doctor's death," he said, "but,—ah—well—the fortunes of war."
"You give this lawlessness rather a dignified name," replied the Englishman.
A blush was all the Brazilian's answer.
"Do you want to kill us all, or is it only the money you are after?" asked Hemming.
The lieutenant looked both ashamed and sulky. He was handsome in a weak sort of way, with a baby face and a thread of black moustache. "We want not to kill," he began, in stilted English, then in his own tongue he continued, "We swore long ago to stick together and hold to our plans,—all except Captain Santosa. We are poor, and one way of making money seemed as good as another. We have our pride and our honour,—we officers. You insulted our colonel. You have called us robbers. Now we will humble your arrogance,—and get our pay."
Hemming translated slowly, often having to hark back to a word and feel around for its meaning. The troopers, who had caught something of the conversation, awaited the commander-in-chief's reply in expectant attitudes.
"You have your pride," he said at last; "then, for God's sake, take it away! It reminds me of a cur with a rotten bone. And that murderer you have with you, surely you are proud of him. Humble my arrogance if you can. It will stand a lot of that sort of thing."