She rose, reeling.
“Come,” replied Montes, taking her arm. “Perdoneme, Senora.”
Without his assistance she would have fallen wholly upon Nels, who supported her on the other side. They helped her alight from the car. For a moment the white walls, the hazy red sky, the dark figures of the rebels, whirled before Madeline’s eyes. She took a few steps, swaying between her escorts; then the confusion of her sight and mind passed away. It was as if she quickened with a thousand vivifying currents, as if she could see and hear and feel everything in the world, as if nothing could be overlooked, forgotten, neglected.
She turned back, remembering Link. He was lurching from the car, helmet and goggles thrust back, the gray shade gone from his face, the cool, bright gleam of his eyes disappearing for something warmer.
Senor Montes led Madeline and her cowboys through a hall to a patio, and on through a large room with flooring of rough, bare boards that rattled, into a smaller room full of armed quiet rebels facing an open window.
Madeline scanned the faces of these men, expecting to see Don Carlos. But he was not present. A soldier addressed her in Spanish too swiftly uttered, too voluble for her to translate. But, like Senor Montes, he was gracious and, despite his ragged garb and uncouth appearance, he bore the unmistakable stamp of authority.
Montes directed Madeline’s attention to a man by the window. A loose scarf of vivid red hung from his hand.
“Senora, they were waiting for the sun to set when we arrived,” said Montes. “The signal was about to be given for Senor Stewart’s walk to death.”
“Stewart’s walk!” echoed Madeline.
“Ah, Senora, let me tell you his sentence—the sentence I have had the honor and happiness to revoke for you.”