SIMPSON, MYSELF AND THE PERSONAGE. 113 



then there was a deafening uproar in the street. 

 I could hear loud cries. The words were Spanish. 

 I could nevertheless understand one word, Ameri- 

 cano, and I realized that I was the person so 

 earnestly held in request. 



Inez rushed to the windows to make sure that 

 the shutters were securely barred. As she did so, 

 she left a pretty picture in my memory — her 

 white arms outstretched, her head thrown back, 

 her hair luxuriant and beautiful. She was my 

 guardian angel. 



I lifted my head to watch her, but the effort 

 made me dizzy, and I swooned again. 



I think it must have been only a few minutes 

 before I was myself once more, but when I next 

 realized the possible gravity of the situation, the 

 mob had gone and we were for the moment safe. 

 Inez sat by my side, stroking my hand and look- 

 ing distractingly lovely. I noticed the pungent 

 odor of some foreign drug. On the table was an 

 open flask. 



But now there came a fresh assault upon the 

 street door. Again I heard cries. 



Chilenos ? No, the rabble had gone their way. 

 Vigilantes f No, those mounted night patrolmen 

 were apparently quite indifferent to the fact of 

 my existence. The voices were familiar voices, 

 and the words were English. 



