CHAPTER XI.

THE COLONEL'S ULTIMATUM

The little garrison breakfasted before sunrise. They had been busily occupied all night, securing doors and windows against any sudden attack. Smith made the secretary a huge bowl of beef tea, much to that warlike invalid's disgust.

"See here, Smith," he said, "if I can fight, I can eat."

"Miss Tetson's orders, sir," replied the man, gravely.

The doctor laughed boisterously, and Hicks blushed. While Hemming and Scott devoured boiled eggs, muffins; and coffee, with Smith waiting on them with a revolver in his pocket, Hicks retired to another room, out of sight of temptation. The poor fellow felt that seven eggs and a plate of muffins would be as nothing in his huge emptiness. He opened one of the upper front windows, and knelt by the sill, rifle in hand. His thoughts were gloomy. The beef tea had only sharpened his appetite and dampened his spirits. Outside, the dawn was quickly strengthening, filling the beautiful gardens with magic, inviting light. He thought of the little fountain in front of the bench, and of the lonely crane. Suddenly he heard the brisk padding of hoofs on the drive, and the colonel, followed by a trooper, rode up to the great steps.

With pardonable caution, Hicks protruded his head from the window, and addressed the Brazilian politely.

The stout horseman saluted, and spoke thus, in what he fondly considered to be English: "Señor, a good morning to you, my friend. I here have a letter, humbly which I wish a delivery in the hands of General Hemming."

He smiled up at the man in the window, evidently vastly pleased with his speech. It was not often that he attempted the language of these aliens.

"If you will kindly request the gentleman with you to poke the letter under the door, I shall be delighted to deliver it to the general," replied Hicks, with a wan grin.

The colonel blinked sleepily, for he had been up late, assisting at the writing of the letter, and emptying bottles. "Have no tremble, señor," he said, "for see,--I am as a sheep, mild."

"I know nothing of sheep, colonel," replied Hicks, "and all is not wool that looks greasy." The soldiers below looked puzzled, and Hicks felt sorry that they were his only audience. Presently the colonel spoke to his man in Portuguese, and passed him a long, white envelope. The little trooper advanced upon the doorway.

"Thank you, sir," cried Hicks, and bowed, as he turned from the window. But the colonel called him back.

"A moment, señor," he said; "I will inquire of the conditions of the ladies, with most respectable regards."

"Thank you, they are very well," said Hicks, and hurried away.

When Hicks gave the letter to Hemming, that self-possessed gentleman and the doctor were smoking, with their chairs pushed back, and Smith was eating muffins with surprising rapidity.

"A letter to you?" queried Scott. "Then they must know of Tetson's escape."

"Possibly," said Hemming, and opened the paper. At first he smiled, as he read. Then, of a sudden, he wrinkled his brows, stared, and looked up.

"What is that stranger's name?" he asked, sharply.

"Cuddlehead, sir," replied Smith, promptly.

"I doubt it," retorted the other, "for I have reason enough to remember this handwriting."

To explain the remark, he opened the sheet on the table, and pointed to where a line had been crossed through and rewritten in a chirography very different to that of the body of the manuscript.

"He seemed harmless enough, whoever he is, from what I heard of him," remarked Hicks.

"He's a sneaking cad," said Hemming, hotly, "and has more devil in him than you could find in the whole of that rotten battalion put together. His real name is Penthouse,--and, by gad, no wonder he kept out of my sight!"

"May we read the letter?" asked the doctor, calmly.

"Read away," said the commander-in-chief, and got out of his chair to pace the room.

The style of the document disclosed its mongrel extraction. It ran as follows:

"TO THE DISTINGUISHED SEÑOR HERBERT HEMMING, LATE COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE ARMY OF PERNAMBA.

"DEAR SIR:--We, the undersigned officers of the Army of Pernamba (seeing in you the real head of the presidential household), do hereby request you to consider the following petitions. First--We desire the sum of ten thousand dollars, due us and our men, in back pay, as per signed agreement with Mr. Tetson. Second--We desire an apology from your distinguished and august self, due us for insulting words spoken to every officer and man of this army. Should the above petitions not be granted within twenty-four hours, we shall proceed, without further parley, to force the money from Mr. Tetson and the apology from you."

At the foot of this ridiculous but disconcerting epistle, stood the names of all the native officers, except, of course, Captain Santosa.

The morning passed without disturbance. The brown soldiers moved about the fast-shut house, smoking endlessly, and talking to one another. The afternoon proved as unexciting as the morning, and Smith began to long for a fight. But Hemming would not let him even take pot-shots at the men in the grounds. By the doctor's orders, the secretary's diet was advanced to soft-boiled eggs. By good luck a store of these were in the house, all more or less fresh.

The colonel took up his position before the villa bright and early on the morning of the 20th of May. It was quite evident to Hemming, who watched him from an upper window, that he had been drinking heavily. Hemming was the first to speak.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I am sure you know what I want, señor," he replied, in his own language.

"Mr. Tetson and I have decided not to consider your so-called petitions," said Hemming, quietly. "We would prove ourselves cowards should we do so. Mr. Tetson owes you nothing,--in fact, the debt is very much the other way; and I shall never ask your pardon for having spoken the truth."

The colonel was furious.

"Consider the safety of the ladies," he shouted.

Scott, who stood behind Hemming, chuckled at that. "What wily, open-eyed chaps they are," he said. "I wonder if they have missed the steamer yet?"

Hemming leaned from the window. "We can look after the ladies, thank you," he sneered, "and, by the way, tell your precious English friend, who helped you write that charming letter, that if I get my hands on him, he'll suffer more than he did the other time. Hurry along now."

Hemming had recovered his monocle, and before its baleful glare the colonel was silent and confused. Just then Cuddlehead thumped into view, clinging to the neck of Hemming's own white stallion. He was in a far worse state than the colonel even, and swayed in the saddle.

"Good morning, Captain Hemming," he cried, and waved his hand.

The men in the room were startled by the expression that crossed their friend's face. The mouth hardened. The eyes narrowed. A deep flush burned in his thin cheeks. He paid no heed to the stranger's salutation.

"Pepper," he said, softly.

The stallion looked up.

"What is that pitiful object on your neck? That nasty cad?"

Pepper hung his clever little head.

His master leaned far out of the window, and his eyes met those of the little stallion.

"Pepper," he said, "jump."

Pepper jumped. Cuddlehead slid over his tail, and for a full minute remained seated in the dust. The Brazilian colonel reeled in his saddle with choking laughter.

"Good old horse, good Pepper," called Hemming, gently.

The stallion cantered away, riderless.

The object of the colonel's uncomfortable mirth got painfully to his feet. His face was purple with the fury that raged within him. He cast discretion to the winds, and, drawing a revolver, emptied it at the smoking-room window. He looked under the cloud of dirty smoke, and saw Hemming's face bent toward him, set and horrible.

"Go away," said a voice that rang like metal, "or I will kill you where you stand. You have crossed my trail once too often, Penthouse, and, by God! this will be the last time. But now you may go away, you poor fool."

Scott twitched once or twice, where he lay on the smoking-room floor, with his head on Smith's knee.

But he was dead, sure enough, with a hole in his neck and another in his heart.

News of the doctor's death soon reached the army, and the colonel's eyes were partially opened to his foolishness. He returned to his quarters, and tried to drown his misgivings in drink. Soon he was as reckless and crazy as ever. It was not a game for a sober man to play with any chance of success. Penthouse, for it was really he, cursed his luck when he heard of his deed, but not so much in disgust at having killed a harmless stranger as in having missed Hemming. Then he steadied his nerves with a glass of brandy, and encouraged the army to fresh efforts.

In the afternoon, Hemming opened the front door, and stared at the men on the veranda. His left arm was in a sling. The troopers straightened up at sight of him, and one even went so far as to toss away his cigarette. The slim lieutenant, with the weakness for golf, bowed low.

"While you are waiting for that money," said Hemming, "will you be kind enough to ask some of your men to dig a grave over there?" He pointed with his hand. The lieutenant gave the order. Then he turned to Hemming.

"We regret the doctor's death," he said, "but,--ah--well--the fortunes of war."

"You give this lawlessness rather a dignified name," replied the Englishman.

A blush was all the Brazilian's answer.

"Do you want to kill us all, or is it only the money you are after?" asked Hemming.

The lieutenant looked both ashamed and sulky. He was handsome in a weak sort of way, with a baby face and a thread of black moustache. "We want not to kill," he began, in stilted English, then in his own tongue he continued, "We swore long ago to stick together and hold to our plans,--all except Captain Santosa. We are poor, and one way of making money seemed as good as another. We have our pride and our honour,--we officers. You insulted our colonel. You have called us robbers. Now we will humble your arrogance,--and get our pay."

Hemming translated slowly, often having to hark back to a word and feel around for its meaning. The troopers, who had caught something of the conversation, awaited the commander-in-chief's reply in expectant attitudes.

"You have your pride," he said at last; "then, for God's sake, take it away! It reminds me of a cur with a rotten bone. And that murderer you have with you, surely you are proud of him. Humble my arrogance if you can. It will stand a lot of that sort of thing."

He looked out to where three men were breaking the sod for Scott's grave.

"How many of you has Doctor Scott nursed back to worthless lives?" he asked. The men turned their faces toward the gravediggers.