He looked out to where three men were breaking the sod for Scott's grave.
"How many of you has Doctor Scott nursed back to worthless lives?" he asked. The men turned their faces toward the gravediggers.
CHAPTER XII.
O'ROURKE TO THE RESCUE
Penthouse (still known to the army as Señor Cuddlehead) sat in the colonel's bedroom in an unenviable frame of mind. He had been a fool to show himself to Hemming. He had been a fool to put any faith in these niggers. Why, the little cowards were afraid to break into the house,—afraid to face five white men and a couple of women. And now that Hemming had seen him again, and again in a decidedly unfavourable light, what mercy could he expect if Hemming ever got out of the President's villa? Whatever he could do must be done quickly. He looked at the colonel, who lay in drunken half-slumber on the bed.
"You don't seem to be carrying out our plans," he said.
The Brazilian groaned, and muttered something in his own tongue, which, fortunately, the other could not translate. "We must carry off the women to-night. Our chances of getting what we want lessen every hour. If help comes from the coast, then what will happen? Half a dozen men could run your dirty army out of the country." With every unheeded word, Penthouse's anger grew. The colonel sprawled there, murmuring that he felt very ill. Penthouse jumped up and shook him violently.
"Wake up, you drunken hog!" he shouted; "wake up, and get to work."
The colonel opened his eyes.
"The ladies—they are gone. They went—long ago."