"The curs that have murdered him shall answer to the United States government," Henderson declared, as positively as if the power lay in his own hands.
"The United States government will be on its knees before Santana in a few weeks, my good Gabriel. Haven't the traitors with whom you have associated since you left the shelter of my house told you this? There is war, Gabriel; the United States forces have been defeated on every hand; they fly, Santana's victorious troops pursue them to the shadow of Washington itself. Who, then, is there left to bring this terrible retribution you threaten, my little son?"
"There is one, at least, if no more," Henderson replied.
"That might be yourself, then, my fine Gabriel?"
"Even myself, Don Abrahan."
Henderson's voice was steady when he took upon himself that obligation of retribution for the deed he had witnessed in the pain of his helplessness but a few moments past. It was so firm, and so deep in its gravity, that the braided general—and he was of no less rank, though his forces numbered but forty men—at Don Abrahan's side looked at the speaker, his eyes drawn as if to pierce him to the marrow. Perhaps he sounded deeper than Don Abrahan, and found the man.
Not so Roberto, who had come up from his conversation with the other officer to stand beside his
