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"Good news?" said Mrs. Gould in a low voice.
"Worthless, I should think. But if I must define them, I would say bad. They are to the effect that a two days' battle had been fought near Sta. Marta, and that the Ribierists are defeated. It must have happened a few days ago—perhaps a week. The rumour has just reached Cayta, and the man in charge of the cable station there has telegraphed the news to his colleague here. We might just as well have kept Barrios in Sulaco."
"What's to be done now?" murmured Mrs. Gould.
"Nothing. He's at sea with the troops. He will get to Cayta in a couple of days' time and learn the news there. What he will do then, who can say? Hold Cayta? Offer his submission to Montero? Disband his army—this last most likely, and go himself in one of the O.S.N. Company's steamers, north or south—to Valparaiso or to San Francisco, no matter where. Our Barrios has a great practice in exiles and repatriations, which mark the points in the political game."
Decoud, exchanging a steady stare with Mrs. Gould, added, tentatively, as it were, "And yet, if we had could have been done."
"Montero victorious, completely victorious!" Mrs. Gould breathed out in a tone of unbelief.
"A canard, probably. That sort of bird is hatched in great numbers in such times as these. And even if it were true? Well, let us put things at their worst, let us say it is true."
"Then everything is lost," said Mrs. Gould, with the calmness of despair.
Suddenly she seemed to divine, she seemed to see Decoud's tremendous excitement under its cloak of studied carelessness. It was, indeed, becoming visible in his audacious and watchful stare, in the curve, half-reckless, half-contemptuous, of his lips. And a French phrase came upon them as if, for this Costaguanero of the Boulevard, that had been the only forcible language—
"Non, Madame. Rien n'est perdu."
It electrified Mrs. Gould out of her benumbed attitude, and she said, vivaciously—
"What would you think of doing?"
But already there was something of mockery in Decoud's suppressed excitement.
"What would you expect a true Costaguanero to do? Another revolution, of course. On my word of honour, Mrs. Gould, I believe I am a true hijo del pays, a true son of the country, whatever Father Corbelan may say. And I'm not so much of an unbeliever as not to have faith in my own ideas, in my own remedies, in my own desires."
"Yes," said Mrs. Gould, doubtfully.
"You don't seem convinced," Decoud went on again in French. "Say, then, in my passions."
Mrs. Gould received this addition unflinchingly. To understand it thoroughly she did not require to hear his muttered assurance—
"There is nothing I would not do for the sake of Antonia. There is nothing I am not prepared to undertake. There is no risk I am not ready to run."
Decoud seemed to find a fresh audacity in this voicing of his thoughts. "You would not believe me if I were to say that it is the love of the country which—"
She made a sort of discouraged protest with her arm, as if to express that she had given up expecting that motive from any one.
"A Sulaco revolution," Decoud pursued in a forcible undertone. "The Great Cause may be served here, on the very spot of its inception, in the place of its birth, Mrs. Gould."
Frowning, and biting her lower lip thoughtfully, she made a step away from the door.
"You are not going to speak to your husband?" Decoud arrested her anxiously.
"But you will need his help?"
"No doubt," Decoud admitted without hesitation. "Everything turns upon the San Tome mine, but I would rather he didn't know anything as yet of my—my hopes."
A puzzled look came upon Mrs. Gould's face, and Decoud, approaching, explained confidentially—
"Don't you see, he's such an idealist."
Mrs. Gould flushed pink, and her eyes grew darker at the same time.
"Charley an idealist!" she said, as if to herself, wonderingly. "What on earth do you mean?"
"Yes," conceded Decoud, "it's a wonderful thing to say with the sight of the