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Dicky, being thoroughly imbued with the martial spirit, stooped and drew the ~comandante’s~ sword, which was girded about him, and charged his foe. He chased the standing army four squares, playfully prodding its squealing rear and hacking at its ginger-colored heels.

But he was not so successful with the civic authorities. Six muscular, nimble policemen overpowered him and conveyed him, triumphantly but warily, to jail. “~El Diablo Colorado~” they dubbed him, and derided the military for its defeat.

Dicky, with the rest of the prisoners, could look out through the barred door at the grass of the little plaza, at a row of orange trees and the red tile roofs and ‘dobe walls of a line of insignificant stores.

At sunset along a path across this plaza came a melancholy procession of sad-faced women bearing plantains, cassava, bread and fruit–each coming with food to some wretch behind those bars to whom she still clung and furnished the means of life. Twice a day–morning and evening–they were permitted to come. Water was furnished to her compulsory guests by the republic, but no food.

That evening Dicky’s name was called by the sentry, and he stepped before the bars of the door. There stood his little saint, a black mantilla draped about her head and shoulders, her face like glorified melancholy, her clear eyes gazing longingly at him as if they might draw him between the bars to her. She brought a chicken, some oranges, dulces and a loaf of white bread. A soldier inspected the food, and passed it in to Dicky. Pasa spoke calmly, as she always did, briefly, in her thrilling, flute-like tones. “Angel of my life,” she said, “let it not be long that thou art away from me. Thou knowest that life is not a thing to be endured with thou not at my side. Tell me if I can do aught in this matter. If not, I will wait–a little while. I come again in the morning.”

Dicky, with his shoes removed so as not to disturb his fellow prisoners, tramped the floor of the jail half the night condemning his lack of money and the cause of it–whatever that might have been. He knew very well that money would have brought his release at once.

For two days succeeding Pasa came at the appointed times and brought him food. He eagerly inquired each time if a letter or package had come for him, and she mournfully shook her head.

On the morning of the third day she brought only a small 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 English or 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 but capricious babe.

“Think better of it,” she said, in a low voice; “since for the next meal there will be nothing. The last ~centavo~ is spent.” 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-tenth their cost? Not even one ~peso~ would any one give. There is not 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 be brave, but I cannot live without thee. Three days now–“

Dicky caught a faint gleam of steel from the folds of her mantilla. For once she looked in his face and saw it without a smile, stern, menacing and purposeful. Then he suddenly raised his hand and his smile came back like a gleam of sunshine. The hoarse signal of an incoming steamer’s siren sounded in the harbor. Dicky called to the sentry who was pacing before the door: “What steamer comes?”