“He is dead—he is dead! At last Rosetta is avenged!”
Dick motioned his companions to silence. He bent down close to the dying bandit.
“Who is dead, Pierre? Ben Thurston?”
“Yes, yes. Ben Thurston. Glory be to God! Don Manuel is avenged!”
“And how did you come to be shot, Pierre? Where is Don Manuel?”
“Dead—dead, too!” The wounded man this time cried out the words and struggled to sit up. His eyes opened wide, and fastened themselves on Dick. His voice again dropped to a whisper; he was speaking lucidly now. “But perhaps he lives. Who knows? Go and save him, Dick—Don Manuel—go, go.”
Exhausted, Pierre sank back on the pillow. His eyes closed. The death rattle was in his throat. “Where is he—where shall I find Don Manuel?” Dick uttered the words close to Pierre’s ear. He alone caught the faint answer. Pierre Luzon was dead.
“He’s gone, Chester,” said Dick, standing erect. Munson stooped, put his ear to Pierre’s breast, then pressed apart one pair of the eyelids.
“Yes, it’s all over,” he said solemnly, as he folded the coverlet over the already marble-like face.
In stricken silence the three men passed to the outer room, shutting the door softly behind them.