SIMPSON, MYSELF AND THE PERSONAGE. Ill 



But best he could do, Rudder was forced under. 



Then I heard a half-smothered cry : " Help — 

 quick — more heef!" The Spaniard was biting 

 Rudder Simpson's nose ! ! 



I sprang to the rescue. As I did so, a dozen 

 Chilenos came up out of the ground. A dozen 

 more dropped down from the sky. I battered the 

 Spaniard with both fists till I thought I had killed 

 him, and then — 



Two seconds later it was several hours after- 

 ward. 



I opened my eyes — or rather, my eye, for one 

 of them somehow stayed shut — and observed 

 important changes in my surroundings. Four 

 walls had closed around me. A low couch had 

 worked its way in under my back. A heavy- 

 raftered roof unaccountably met my gaze. In 

 other words, I had been carried into a house and 

 rescued from the blood-thirsty Chilenos. 



It was night. 



I took in the situation only by degrees. A dark- 

 eyed woman was sitting at the foot of the couch. 

 She was brightly clad, and she had a brilliant 

 shawl thrown over her shoulders. Her hair hung 

 in two heavy, dark braids. The woman gazed 

 across the room. Her attention was fixed upon 

 someone speaking. That someone knelt before 



