he gingerly parted his wet, disheveled hair. "Look at the bump
on the back of my head. Is _that_ your idea of saving me? I wish," he
exploded savagely, "I wish he'd shot you full of holes!"

The violent onslaught of Peter was interrupted by one hardly less
violent from the young Venezuelan. He had freed himself from his
friends, and, as it now was evident the man who had attempted his life
had escaped, and that to search further was useless, he ran to thank
the stranger who had served him. Extravagantly, but with real feeling,
he wrung both of Roddy's hands. In the native fashion he embraced him,
shook him by the shoulders, patted him affectionately on the back.
Eloquently but incoherently in Spanish, French and English he poured
forth his thanks. He hailed Roddy as his preserver, his _bon amigo_,
his _brav camarad_. In expressing their gratitude his friends were
equally voluble and generous. They praised, they applauded, they
admired; in swift, graceful gestures they reenacted for each other the
blow upon the chin, the struggle for the revolver, the escape of the
would-be assassin.

Even Peter, as the only one who had suffered, became a heroic figure.

It was many minutes before the Americans could depart, and then only
after every one had drunk to them in warm, sweet champagne.

When the glasses were filled the young Venezuelan turned to those
standing about him on the grass and commanded silence. He now spoke in
excellent English, but Roddy noted that those of the older men who
could not understand regarded him with uneasiness.

"I ask you, my friends," cried the Venezuelan, "to drink to the name
of Forrester. How much," he exclaimed, "does not that name mean to my
unhappy country. I--myself--that _my_ life should be taken--it is
nothing; but that it should be saved for my country by one of that
name is for us an omen--a lucky omen. It means," he cried, the soft,
liquid eyes flashing, "it means success. It means--" As though
suddenly conscious of the warning frowns of his friends, he paused
abruptly, and with a graceful bow, and waving his glass toward Roddy,
said quietly, "Let us drink to the son of a good friend of
Venezuela--to Mr. Forrester."

Not until the landau was well on its way to Willemstad did Roddy deem
it wise to make a certain inquiry.

"What," he asked of the driver, "is the name of the gentleman that the
other gentleman tried to shoot?"

The driver turned completely in his seat. His eyes wer