The lieutenant and his
men looked on in amazement, shuffling their feet and shifting
their rifle butts noisily upon the floor.
Alaire turned an anxious face to Dave, saying: "He is wonderful.
Longorio is almost--afraid of him."
"Yes; he may bring him to his senses. If he doesn't--" Dave cast
his eyes desperately over the room, conscious all the time that he
was being watched with suspicion by the men outside. He stirred
restlessly and moistened his lips. "Longorio would be crazy to
injure you."
Ten minutes passed; fifteen. Alaire leaned, motionless, against
the table; Dave paced about, followed by the eyes of the soldiers.
One of the latter struck a match, and in the silence it sounded
like a gunshot. Dave started, at which the soldiers laughed. They
began to talk in murmurs. The odor of cigarette smoke drifted in
to the man and the woman.
Finally the door through which Father O'Malley and Longorio had
passed opened, and the priest emerged. He was alone. His face was
flushed and damp; his eyes were glowing. He forced the Mexicans
out of his way and, entering the living-room, closed the door
behind him.
"Well?" his two friends questioned, anxiously.
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