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the tan, and his eyes gleamed with a dark fire. Occasionally his delight at meeting, talking with Gale, dominated the other emotions, but not for long. He had seated himself at a table near one of the door-like windows leading into the street, and every little while he would glance sharply out. Also he kept consulting his watch.
    These details gradually grew upon Gale as Thorne talked.
    â€œGeorge, it strikes me that you’re upset,” said Dick presently. “I seem to remember you as a coolheaded fellow whom nothing could disturb. Has the army changed you?”
    Thorne laughed. It was a laugh with a strange, high note. It was reckless—it hinted of exaltation. He rose abruptly; he gave the waiter money to go for drinks; he looked into the saloon, and then into the street. On this side of the house there was a porch opening on a plaza with trees and shrubbery and branches. Thorne peered out one window, then another. His actions were rapid. Returning to the table, he put his hands upon it and leaned over to look closely into Gale’s face.
    â€œI’m away from camp without leave,” he said.
    â€œIsn’t that a serious offense?” asked Dick.
    â€œSerious? For me, if I’m discovered, it means ruin. There are rebels in town. Any moment we might have trouble. I ought to be ready for duty—within call. If I’m discovered it means arrest. That means delay—the failure of my plans—ruin.”
    Gale was silenced by his friend’s intensity. Thorne bent over closer with his dark eyes searchingly bright.
    â€œWe were old pals—once?”
    â€œSurely,” replied Dick.
    â€œWhat would you say, Dick Gale, if I told you that you’re the one man I’d rather have had come along than any other at this crisis of my life?”
    The earnest gaze, the passionate voice with its deep tremor drew Dick upright, thrilling and eager, conscious of strange, unfamiliar impetuosity.
    â€œThorpe, I should say I was glad to be the fellow,” replied Dick.
    Their hands locked for a moment, and they sat down again with heads close over the table.
    â€œListen,” began Thorne, in low, swift whisper, “a few days, a week ago—it seems like a year!—I was of some assistance to refugees fleeing from Mexico into the States. They were all women, and one of them was dressed as a nun. Quite by accident I saw her face. It was that of a beautiful girl. I observed she kept aloof from the others. I suspected a disguise, and, when opportunity afforded, spoke to her, offered my services. She replied to my poor efforts at Spanish in fluent English. She had fled in terror from her home, someplace down in Sinaloa. Rebels are active there. Her father was captured and held for ransom. When the ransom was paid the rebels killed him. The leader of these rebels was a bandit named Rojas. Long before the revolution began he had been feared by people of class—loved by the peons. Bandits are worshiped by the peons. All of the famous bandits have robbed the rich and given to the poor. Rojas saw the daughter, made off with her. But she contrived to bribe her guards, and escaped almost immediately before any harm befell her. She hid among friends. Rojas nearly tore down the town in his efforts to find her. Then she disguised herself, and traveled by horseback, stage, and train to Casita.
    â€œHer story fascinated me, and that one fleeting glimpse I had of her face I couldn’t forget. She had no friends here, no money. She knew Rojas was trailing her. This talk I had with her was at the railroad station, where all was bustle and confusion. No one noticed us, so I thought. I advised her to remove the disguise of a nun before she left the waiting-room. And I got a boy to guide her. But he fetched her to this house. I had promised to come in the evening to talk over the situation with her.
    â€œI found her, Dick, and when I saw her—I went stark, staring, raving mad over