“I am very tired,” she sighed, leaning against him. “I grow faint.”
They walked slowly, Lawrence giving her the support of his arm. Finally, nearing the hospital, they turned into a plaza where the street lamp had been shot down.
In a flash La Pava swung under his arm, drew his pistol, wrenched herself away, and covered him.
“Ah! You are not so quick this time. Don’t move! You Americans say you will shoot, and you do not shoot.” She fired twice, rapidly, over his head. “But I have still four shots, and I am a Mexican.”
A mounted figure, leading a second horse, whirled up and reined in with a jolt. Fernando Diaz showed his white teeth, smiling cordially, as he took the automatic from his mistress and levelled it at Lawrence.
“What say you, querida? I finished Vicente. Shall I do away with this gringo?”
La Pava mounted as Diaz spoke.
“Let him live,” she said, “for he is a brave man.”
“Adios, señor! The machine-guns are safe through the lines. Take my advice, teniente, and never trust a woman——”
Diaz’s spurs dug deep, and sparks flew from the cobbles.