“Senora!  Ah, it will be one beautiful thing!” Montes caught the scarf from the rebel’s hand.  He was glowing, passionate; his eyes had a strange, soft, cold flash; his voice was low, intense.  He was living something splendid to him.  “I’ll wave the scarf, Senora.  That will be the signal.  It will be seen down at the other end of the road.  Senor Stewart’s jailer will see the signal, take off Stewart’s irons, release him, open the door for his walk.  Stewart will be free.  But he will not know.  He will expect death.  As he is a brave man, he will face it.  He will walk this way.  Every step of that walk he will expect to be shot from some unknown quarter.  But he will not be afraid.  Senora, I have seen El Captain fighting in the field.  What is death to him?  Ah, will it not be magnificent to see him come forth—­to walk down?  Senora, you will see what a man he is.  All the way he will expect cold, swift death.  Here at this end of the road he will meet his beautiful lady!”

“Is there no—­no possibility of a mistake?” faltered Madeline.

“None.  My order included unloading of rifles.”

“Don Carlos?”

“He is in irons, and must answer to General Salazar,” replied Montes.

Madeline looked down the deserted road.  How strange to see the last ruddy glow of the sun over the brow of the mountain range!  The thought of that sunset had been torture for her.  Yet it had passed, and now the afterlights were luminous, beautiful, prophetic.

With a heart stricken by both joy and agony, she saw Montes wave the scarf.

Then she waited.  No change manifested itself down the length of that lonely road.  There was absolute silence in the room behind her.  How terribly, infinitely long seemed the waiting!  Never in all her future life would she forget the quaint pink, blue, and white walled houses with their colored roofs.  That dusty bare road resembled one of the uncovered streets of Pompeii with its look of centuries of solitude.

Suddenly a door opened and a tall man stepped out.

Madeline recognized Stewart.  She had to place both hands on the window-sill for support, while a storm of emotion swayed her.  Like a retreating wave it rushed away.  Stewart lived.  He was free.  He had stepped out into the light.  She had saved him.  Life changed for her in that instant of realization and became sweet, full, strange.

Stewart shook hands with some one in the doorway.  Then he looked up and down the road.  The door closed behind him.  Leisurely he rolled a cigarette, stood close to the wall while he scratched a match.  Even at that distance Madeline’s keen eyes caught the small flame, the first little puff of smoke.

Stewart then took to the middle of the road and leisurely began his walk.

To Madeline he appeared natural, walked as unconcernedly as if he were strolling for pleasure; but the absence of any other living thing, the silence, the red haze, the surcharged atmosphere—­ these were all unnatural.  From time to time Stewart stopped to turn face forward toward houses and corners.  Only silence greeted these significant moves of his.  Once he halted to roll and light another cigarette.  After that his step quickened.