shot, and that the idea of being killed was of no concern to
him except on that account. Then the scene before him changed, and
apparently hundreds of Mendoza's soldiers poured out from the Palace
and swept down upon him, cheering as they came, and he felt himself
falling back naturally and as a matter of course, as he would have
stepped out of the way of a locomotive, or a runaway horse, or any
other unreasoning thing. His shoulders pushed against a mass of
shouting, sweating men, who in turn pressed back upon others, until the
mass reached the iron fence and could move no farther. He heard Clay's
voice shouting to them, and saw him run forward, shooting rapidly as he
ran, and he followed him, even though his reason told him it was a
useless thing to do, and then there came a great shout from the rear of
the Palace, and more soldiers, dressed exactly like the others, rushed
through the great doors and swarmed around the two wings of the
building, and he recognized them as Rojas's men and knew that the fight
was over.

He saw a tall man with a negro's face spring out of the first mass of
soldiers and shout to them to follow him. Clay gave a yell of welcome
and ran at him, calling upon him in Spanish to surrender. The negro
stopped and stood at bay, glaring at Clay and at the circle of soldiers
closing in around him. He raised his revolver and pointed it steadily.
It was as though the man knew he had only a moment to live, and meant
to do that one thing well in the short time left him.

Clay sprang to one side and ran toward him, dodging to the right and
left, but Mendoza followed his movements carefully with his revolver.

It lasted but an instant. Then the Spaniard threw his arm suddenly
across his face, drove the heel of his boot into the turf, and spinning
about on it fell forward.

"If he was shot where his sash crosses his heart, I know the man who
did it," Langham heard a voice say at his elbow, and turning saw
MacWilliams wetting his fingers at his lips and touching them gingerly
to the heated barrel of his Winchester.

The death of Mendoza left his followers without a leader and without a
cause. They threw their muskets on the ground and held their hands
above their heads, shrieking for mercy. Clay and his officers answered
them instantly by running from one group to another, knocking up the
barrels of the rifles and calling hoarsely to the men on the roofs to
cease firing, and as they were obeyed