THERE was a gleam of yellow sunlight on Don Abrahan's gables as the party of the cannon, no longer refugees, drew up to the head of the olive lane. The stir of early morning gave a liveliness to the back portion of the premises of which the front offered no indication, for, like the houses of the great everywhere, Don Abrahan's front door was the last to open on the day.
Henderson and Helena rode in front, the artilleryman in his parrot-green uniform following with his four horses. Felipe rode the ammunition-box, ready to unlimber the piece in a moment and stand on his defense. Determination and confidence made up whatever the party might be lacking in numbers. Henderson flung the gate open; the cannon trundled under the spreading limbs of the oak where Helena had found refuge on a well-remembered night.
It was as if some monster came upon a man while he slept, the manner of that cannon's arrival in the courtyard of Don Abrahan's mansion. Don Abrahan, indeed, was asleep, far beyond his usual hour for waking. He had been on the road late last night, leading his men to surround Pablo Gonzales' house in the empty raid that came of Simon's
