Dicky， being thoroughly imbued with the martial spirit，stooped and drew the comandante’s sword， which wasgirded about him， and charged his foe. He chasedthe standing army four squares， playfully prodding itssquealing rear and hacking at its ginger-colored heels.
But he was not so successful with the civic authorities.
Six muscular， nimble policemen overpowered him andconveyed him， triumphantly but warily， to jail. “El DiabloColorado” they dubbed him， and derided the military forits defeat.
Dicky， with the rest of the prisoners， could look outthrough the barred door at the grass of the little plaza， ata row of orange trees and the red tile roofs and ’dobe wallsof a line of insignificant stores.
At sunset along a path across this plaza came a melancholyprocession of sad-faced women bearing plantains， cassava，bread and fruit—each coming with food to some wretchbehind those bars to whom she still clung and furnishedthe means of life. Twice a day—morning and evening—they were permitted to come. Water was furnished to hercompulsory guests by the republic， but no food.
That evening Dicky’s name was called by the sentry， andhe stepped before the bars of the door. There stood hislittle saint， a black mantilla draped about her head andshoulders， her face like glorified melancholy， her clear eyesgazing longingly at him as if they might draw him betweenthe bars to her. She brought a chicken， some oranges，dulces and a loaf of white bread. A soldier inspected thefood， and passed it in to Dicky. Pasa spoke calmly， asshe always did， briefly， in her thrilling， flute-like tones.
“Angel of my life，” she said， “let it not be long that thouart away from me. Thou knowest that life is not a thingto be endured with thou not at my side. Tell me if I cando aught in this matter. If not， I will wait—a little while. Icome again in the morning.”
Dicky， with his shoes removed so as not to disturb hisfellow prisoners， tramped the floor of the jail half thenight condemning his lack of money and the cause ofit—whatever that might have been.
He knew very well that money would have brought hisrelease at once.
For two days succeeding Pasa came at the appointedtimes and brought him food. He eagerly inquired eachtime if a letter or package had come for him， and shemournfully shook her head.
On the morning of the third day she brought only asmall loaf of bread. There were dark circles under her eyes.
She seemed as calm as ever.
“By jingo，” said Dicky， who seemed to speak in Englishor Spanish as the whim seized him， “this is dry provender，muchachita. Is this the best you can dig up for a fellow？”
Pasa looked at him as a mother looks at a beloved butcapricious babe.
“Think better of it，” she said， in a low voice； “since forthe next meal there will be nothing. The last centavo isspent.” She pressed closer against the grating.
“Sell the goods in the shop—take anything for them.”
“Have I not tried？ Did I not offer them for one-tenththeir cost？ Not even one peso would any one give. There isnot one real in this town to assist Dickee Malonee.”
Dick clenched his teeth grimly. “That’s the comandante，”
he growled. “He’s responsible for that sentiment. Wait， oh，wait till the cards are all out.”
Pasa lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “And， listen，heart of my heart，” she said， “I have endeavored to bebrave， but I cannot live without thee. Three days now—”
Dicky caught a faint gleam of steel from the folds ofher mantilla. For once she looked in his face and saw itwithout a smile， stern， menacing and purposeful. Thenhe suddenly raised his hand and his smile came back likea gleam of sunshine. The hoarse signal of an incomingsteamer’s siren sounded in the harbor. Dicky called to thesentry who was pacing before the door： “What steamercomes？”
“The Catarina.”
“Of the Vesuvius line？”
“Without doubt， of that line.”
“Go you， picarilla，” said Dicky joyously to Pasa， “to theAmerican consul. Tell him I wish to speak with him. Seethat he comes at once. And look you！ let me see a differentlook in those eyes， for I promise your head shall rest uponthis arm tonight.”
It was an hour before the consul came. He held hisgreen umbrella under his arm， and mopped his foreheadimpatiently.
“Now， see here， Maloney，” he began， captiously， “youfellows seem to think you can cut up any kind of row，and expect me to pull you out of it. I’m neither the WarDepartment nor a gold mine. This country has its laws，you know， and there’s one against pounding the sensesout of the regular army. You Irish are forever getting intotrouble. I don’t see what I can do. Anything like tobacco，now， to make you comfortable—or newspapers—”
“Son of Eli，” interrupted Dicky， gravely， “you haven’tchanged an iota. That is almost a duplicate of the speechyou made when old Koen’s donkeys and geese got into thechapel loft， and the culprits wanted to hide in your room.”
