nt twisting his dark
mustache, while his eyes frowned inquiringly. He was disinclined to
take part in proceedings that might have political after-effects. He
had volunteered to assist an injured civilian, not a participant, or
refugee. There were many such in the streets.

"This is a matter of life and death," urged Rodman, rapidly. "This man
is Mr. Robert Saxon. He had left this coast with a clean bill of
health. I explain all this because I need your help. When he had made
a part of his return journey, he learned by chance that the city was
threatened, and that a lady who was very important to him was in
danger. He hastened back. In order to reach her, he became involved,
and used the _insurrecto_ countersign. Mr. Saxon is a famous artist."
Rodman was giving the version of the story he knew the wounded man
would wish to have told. He said nothing of Carter.

At the last words, the stranger started forward.

"A famous painter!" His voice was full of incredulous interest.
"Monsieur, you can not by any possibility mean that this is Robert A.
Saxon, the first disciple of Frederick Marston!" The man's manner
became enthused and eager. "You must know, monsieur," he went on,
"that I am Louis Herve, myself a poor copyist of the great Marston. At
one time, I had the honor to be his pupil. To me, it is a pleasure to
be of any service to Mr. Saxon. What are we to do?"

"There is a small sailors' tavern near the mole," directed Rodman; "we
must take him there. I shall find a way to have him cared for on a
vessel going seaward. I have a yacht five miles away, but we can
hardly reach it in time."

"But medical attention!" demurred Monsieur Herve. "He must have that."

Rodman was goaded into impatience by the necessity for haste. He was
in no mood for debate.

"Yes, and a trained nurse!" he retorted, hotly. "We must do the best
we can. If we don't hurry, he will need an undertaker and a coroner.
Medical attention isn't very good in Puerto Frio prisons!"

The two men lifted Saxon between them, and carried the unconscious man
toward the mole.

Their task was like that of many others. They passed a sorry
procession of litters, stretchers, and bodies hanging limply in the
arms of bearers. No one paid the slightest attention to them, except
an occasional sentry who gazed on in stolid indifference.

At the tavern kept by the Chinaman, Juan, and frequented by the
roughest elements that drift against a coast such as this, Rodman