“You dislike Miguel?” asked Savrola after a while.
“He is a traitor.”
“There are plenty about the city. Now I suppose you would call me a traitor.”
“Ah! but you have always been one,” replied Tiro bluntly. Savrola gave a short laugh. “I mean,” continued the other, “that you have always been trying to upset things.”
“I have been loyal to my treachery,” suggested Savrola.
“Yes—we have always been at war with you; but this viper—”
“Well,” said Savrola, “you must take men as you find them; few are disinterested. The viper, as you call him, is a poor creature; but he saved my life, and asked me to save his in return. What could I do? Besides he is of use. He knows the exact state of the public finances and is acquainted with the details of the foreign policy. What are we stopping for?”
Tiro looked out. The street was closed by a barricade which made it a cul-de-sac. “Try the next turning,” he said to the coachman; “go on quickly.” The noise of the firing could now be distinctly heard. “We very nearly pulled it off this morning,” said Tiro.
“Yes,” answered Savrola; “they told me the attack was repulsed with difficulty.”
“Where were you?” asked the boy in great astonishment.
“At the Mayoralty, asleep; I was very tired.”
Tiro was conscious of an irresistible feeling of disgust. So he was a coward, this great man. He had always heard that politicians took care of their skins, and sent others to fight their battles. Somehow he had thought that Savrola was different: he knew such a lot about polo; but he was the same as all the rest.
Savrola, ever quick to notice, saw his look and again laughed dryly. “You think I ought to have been in the streets? Believe me, I did more good where I was. If you had seen the panic and terror at the Mayoralty during the fighting, you would have recognised that there were worse things to do than to go to sleep in confidence. Besides, everything in human power had been done; and we had not miscalculated.”
Tiro remained unconvinced. His good opinion of Savrola was destroyed. He had heard much of this man’s political courage. The physical always outweighed the moral in his mind. He felt reluctantly convinced that he was a mere word-spinner, brave enough where speeches were concerned, but careful when sterner work was to be done.
The carriage stopped again. “All these streets are barricaded, Sir,” said the coachman.
Savrola looked out of the window. “We are close there, let us walk; it is only half a mile across Constitution Square.” He jumped out. The barricade was deserted, as were the streets in this part of the town. Most of the violent rebels were attacking the palace, and the peaceable citizens were in their houses or outside the Mayoralty.
They scrambled over the rough wail, which was made of paving-stones and sacks of earth piled under and upon two wagons, and hurried down the street beyond. It led to the great square of the city. At the further end was the Parliament House, with the red flag of revolt flying from its tower. An entrenchment had been dug in front of the entrance, and the figures of some of the rebel soldiery were visible on it.
They had gone about a quarter of the distance across the square, when suddenly, from the entrenchment or barricade three hundred yards away, there darted a puff of smoke; five or six more followed in quick succession. Savrola paused, astonished, but the Subaltern understood at once. “Run for it!” he cried. “The statue—there is cover behind it.”
Savrola began to run as fast as he could. The firing from the barricade continued. He heard two sucking kisses in the air; something struck the pavement in front of him so that the splinters flew, and while he passed a grey smudge appeared; there was a loud tang on the area-railings beside him; the dust of the roadway sprang up in several strange spurts. As he ran, the realisation of what these things meant grew stronger; but the distance was short and he reached the statue alive. Behind its massive pedestal there was ample shelter for both.
“They fired at us.”
“They did,” replied Tiro. “Damn them!”
“But why?”
“My uniform—devilry—running man—good fun, you know—for them.”
“We must go on,” said Savrola.
“We can’t go on across the square.”
“Which way, then?”
“We must work down the street away from them, keeping the statue between us and their fire, and get up one of the streets to the left.”
A main street ran through the centre of the great square, and led out of it at right angles to the direction in which they were proceeding. It was possible to retire down this under cover of the statue, and to take a parallel street further along. This would enable them to avoid the fire from the entrenchment, or would at least reduce the dangerous space to a few yards. Savrola looked in the direction Tiro indicated. “Surely this is shorter,” he said pointing across the square.
“Much shorter,” answered the Subaltern; “in about three seconds it will take you to another world.”
Savrola rose. “Come on,” he said; “I do not allow such considerations to affect my judgment. The lives of men are at stake; the time is short. Besides, this is an educational experience.”
The blood was in his cheeks and his eyes sparkled; all that was reckless in him, all his love of excitement, stirred
