efore her, and touched the hem of her coarse black
baize skirt. "Your slave," he said.

She caught sight then of the heap of rubbish that had been the house,
all misty in the cloud of dust. "Ah!" she cried, pressing her hand to
her forehead.

"I carried you out from there," he whispered at her feet.

"And they?" she asked in a great sob.

He rose, and taking her by the arms, led her gently towards the
shapeless ruin half overwhelmed by a landslide. "Come and listen," he
said.

The serene moon saw them clambering over that heap of stones, joists and
tiles, which was a grave. They pressed their ears to the interstices,
listening for the sound of a groan, for a sigh of pain.

At last he said, "They died swiftly. You are alone."

She sat down on a piece of broken timber and put one arm across her
face. He waited--then approaching his lips to her ear: "Let us go," he
whispered.

"Never--never from here," she cried out, flinging her arms above her
head.

He stooped over her, and her raised arms fell upon his shoulders. He
lifted her up, steadied himself and began to walk, looking straight
before him.

"What are you doing?" she asked, feebly.

"I am escaping from my enemies," he said, never once glancing at his
light burden.

"With me?" she sighed, helplessly.

"Never without you," he said. "You are my strength."

He pressed her close to him. His face was grave and his footsteps
steady. The conflagrations bursting out in the ruins of destroyed
villages dotted the plain with red fires; and the sounds of distant
lamentations, the cries of Misericordia! Misericordia! made a desolate
murmur in his ears. He walked on, solemn and collected, as if carrying
something holy, fragile, and precious.

The earth rocked at times under his feet.

IX

With movements of mechanical care and an air of abstraction old General
Santierra lighted a long and thick cigar.

"It was a good many hours before we could send a party back to the
ravine," he said to his guests. "We had found one-third of the town laid
low, the rest shaken up; and the inhabitants, rich and poor, reduced to
the same state of distraction by the universal disaster. The affected
cheerfulness of some contrasted with the despair of others. In the
general confusion a number of reckless thieves, without fear of God or
man, became a danger to those who from the downfall of their homes had
managed to save some valuables. Crying 'Misericordia' louder than any