"I see that I've fallen upon a merry crowd," he said, "and it is well.

The spirit of youth is always delightful, and it leads to the doing of great things."

"You talk like an actor," said d.i.c.k Grayson, not as a criticism, but in tones of admiration.

"I talk like an actor," replied Bill Breakstone with majesty, "because I am one."

"You don't say so! You don't mean it!" exclaimed a dozen voices at once.

"I am, or, rather, was," replied Bill with dignity, "although I will admit that I am now engaged in other pursuits."

Most of them still looked at him doubtfully, and Bill, his honor at stake, became the subject of a sudden inspiration.

"I see that some of you suspect my veracity, which is natural under the circ.u.mstances," he said. "Now, I said I was an actor, and I'll prove that I'm an actor by acting."

"You don't mean it!" they cried again.

"I will," said Bill Breakstone firmly. "Moreover, I will act from a play by the greatest of all writers. Throw the wood together there and let the blaze spring up. I want you to see me."

A dozen willing hands tossed together the logs which sent up a swift, high flame. The whole circle was lighted brightly, and Bill Breakstone stood up. Phil had never taken seriously his a.s.sertion that he had been an actor, but now he suddenly changed his opinion. He stood for a few moments in the full blaze of the light, a tall, slender figure, his face lean and shaven smoothly. His expression changed absolutely. He seemed wholly unconscious of the young soldiers about him, of the palms, or of the stone or adobe houses of the town.

Then, in a tone of martial fervor he began to recite sc.r.a.ps from Shakespeare dealing with war and battle, Macbeth's defiance to Macduff, Richard on the battlefield, and other of the old familiar pa.s.sages. But they were new to most of those about him, and Breakstone himself, as he afterward said, was stirred that night by an uncommon fire and spirit.

Something greater than he, perhaps the effect of time and place, seemed to have laid hold of him. The fire and spirit were communicated to his audience, which rapidly increased in numbers, although he did not see it, so deeply was he filled with his own words, carrying him far back into other lands among the scenes that he described. The applause rose again and again, and always he was urged to go on. As he recited for the sixth time, a thick-set, strong figure appeared at the edge of the throng, and men at once made way for it. The figure was that of a man with gray hair, and with a deep line down either cheek. Breakstone's pa.s.sing glance caught the face and divined in an instant his ident.i.ty.

The applause, the demand for more, rose again, and after a little hesitation the actor began:

"'My people are with sickness much enc.u.mbered My numbers lessened, and these few I have, Almost no better than so many French; Who, when they were in health, I tell the herald, I thought upon one pair of English legs Did walk three Frenchmen, yet Forgive me, G.o.d, That I do brag thus. This poor air of France Hath blown that voice in me. I must repent, Go, therefore, tell thy master here I am; My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk, My army but a weak and sickly guard--'"

He paused a moment, but the man with the gray hair and lined cheeks still stood in an att.i.tude of deep attention, and, skipping some of the lines, he continued:

"'If we may pa.s.s we will; if we be hindered We shall your tawny ground with your red blood Discolor; and so, Montjoy, fare you well, The sum of all our answer is but this: We would not seek a battle as we are; Nor as we are, we say we will not shun it, So tell your master.'"

He sat down amid roars of applause and universal approval. Did they not know? Mexicans were boasting already that Taylor would have to surrender to Santa Anna without a battle. Bill Breakstone stole a glance toward the place where the gray-haired man had stood, but he was gone now.

"Did you know that old Rough and Ready himself was listening to you there toward the last?" asked Grayson.

"Is that so?" replied Breakstone. "Well, I'm not ashamed of anything that I said, and now, if I've entertained you boys a little, I'd like to rest awhile. You don't know how hard that kind of work is, whether your work be good or bad."

Rest he certainly should have. They had found too great a treasure, these fighting men in a far land, to let him be spoiled by overwork, and they brought him an abundance of refreshment, also.

Breakstone drank a cup of light wine made in Saltillo, as he lay back luxuriously on a pallet in one of the tents. He felt that he had reason to be satisfied with himself, and perhaps, he, playing the actor, had seized an opportunity, and had made it do what might be an important service in a great campaign.

"What was the last piece that you recited?" asked Grayson. "Somehow it seemed to fit in with our own situation here."

"That," replied Breakstone, "was a speech from King Henry V. He is in France with a small army, and the French have sent to him to demand his surrender. He makes the reply that I have just quoted to you."

There was a thoughtful silence, although they had known his meaning already, and presently Phil and his comrades, making themselves comfortable in their tents, went to sleep. They were formally enrolled among the Kentucky volunteers the next day, and began their duties, which consisted chiefly of patrolling. Phil was among the sentinels stationed the next night on the outskirts of the city.

CHAPTER XII

THE Pa.s.s OF ANGOSTURA

It was almost midwinter now in Mexico, and here, in the northern part of the republic, on the great plateau, it was cold. Phil more than once had seen the snow flying, and far away it lay in white sheets on the peaks of the Sierra Madre. He had obtained a heavy blanket coat or overcoat from the stores, and he was glad enough now to pull it closely around him and turn its collar up about his neck, as he walked back and forth in the chilly blasts. At each end of his beat he met another sentinel, a young Kentuckian like himself, and, for the sake of company, they would exchange a friendly word or two before they parted.

The night was dark, and, with the icy winds cutting him, Phil, after the other sentinel had turned away, felt more lonesome in this far strange land than he had ever been before in his life. Everything about him was unfriendly, the hard volcanic soil upon which he trod, the shapeless figures of the adobe huts on the outskirts of the town, and the moaning winds from the Sierra Madre, which seemed to be more hostile and penetrating than those of his own country. It was largely imagination, the effect of his position, but it contained something of reality, also.

It certainly was not fancy alone that peopled the country about with enemies. An invader is seldom loved, and it was not fancy at all that created the night and the cold.

Phil's beat was at the edge of open country, and he could see a little distance upon a plain. He thought, at times, that shadowy figures with soundless tread pa.s.sed there, but he was never sure. He spoke about it to the sentinel on his right, and then to the sentinel on his left. Each in turn watched with him, but then the shadows did not pa.s.s, and he concluded that his fancy was playing him tricks. Yet he was troubled, and he resolved to watch with the utmost vigilance. His beat covered a path leading into the town, while to right and left of him was very difficult country. It occurred to him that anybody who wanted to pa.s.s would come his way, and he was resolved that n.o.body should pa.s.s. He examined every shadow, even if it might be that of a tree moved by the wind, and he listened to every sound, although it might be made by some strange Mexican animal.

Thus the time pa.s.sed, and the fleeting shadows resolved themselves into a figure that had substance and that remained. It took the shape of a man in conical hat and long Mexican serape. He also carried a large basket on one arm, and he approached with an appearance of timidity and hesitation. Phil stepped forward at once, held up his rifle, and called: "Halt!" The man obeyed promptly and pointed to the basket, saying something in Spanish. When Phil looked, he pulled back the cover and disclosed eggs and dressed chickens.

"To sell to the soldiers?" asked the boy.

The man nodded. Phil could not see his face, which was hidden by the broad brim of his hat and the folds of his serape, drawn up around his chin, evidently to fend off the cold. His surmise was likely enough.

The Americans had made a good market at Saltillo, and the peons were ready to sell. But he did not like the hour or the man's stealthy approach.

"No come in," he said, trying to use the simplest words of his language to a foreigner. "Orders! Orders must be obeyed!"

The man pointed again to his basket, as if, being in doubt, he would urge the value of a welcome.

"No come in," repeated Phil. "Go back," and he pointed toward the woods from which the Mexican had come.

The man hesitated, but he did not go. He turned again toward Phil, and at that moment the wind lifted a segment of his wide hat-brim. Phil sprang back in amazement. Despite the dark, he recognized the features of de Armijo, who could have come there for no good, who must have come as a spy or worse.

"De Armijo!" he cried, and sprang for him. But the Mexican was as quick as lightning. He leaped backward, dropped his basket, and the long blade of a knife flashed in the air. It cut through the sleeve of Phil's coat, and the sharp point, with a touch like fire, ran along his arm. It was well for him that he had put on the heavy blanket coat that night, or the blade would have grated on the bone.

The pain did not keep Phil from throwing up his rifle, and de Armijo, seeing that his stroke had not disabled the boy, wheeled and ran. Phil fired instantly, and saw de Armijo stagger a little. But in a moment the Mexican recovered himself and quickly disappeared in the darkness, although Phil rushed after him. He would have followed across the plain, but he knew it was his duty to go no farther, and he came back to meet the other sentinels, who were running toward him at the sound of the shot. Phil quickly explained what had occurred, telling the ident.i.ty of the man, and adding that he was crafty and dangerous.

"A Mexican officer," said one of them. "No doubt he was trying to enter the town in order to get more complete information about us and our plans than they have yet obtained. He would have remained hidden by day in some house, and he would have slipped out again at night when he had learned all that he wanted. You did a good job, Bedford, when you stopped him."

"You did more than stop him," said another, who had brought a small lantern. "You nicked him before he got away. See, here's a drop of blood, and here's another, and there's another."

They followed the trail of the drops, but it did not lead far.

Evidently the effusion of blood had not been great. Then one of the men, glancing at Phil rather curiously, said:

"He seems to have touched you up, Bedford. Do you know that a little stream of blood is running down your left sleeve?"

Phil was not conscious until then that something moist and warm was dripping upon his hand. In the excitement of the moment he had forgotten all about the slash of the knife, but, now that he remembered it, he felt a sudden weakness. But he hid it from the others, and it pa.s.sed in a minute or so.

The chief of the patrol ordered him to go back and report to an officer, and this officer happened to be Middleton, who was sitting with Edgeworth in one of the open camps before a small fire. Phil's arm meanwhile had been bound up, although he found that the cut was not deep, and would not incapacitate him. Phil saluted in the new military style that he was acquiring, and of which he was very proud, and said, in reply to Middleton's look of inquiry:

"I have the honor to report, sir, that a spy, a Mexican officer, tried to pa.s.s our lines at the point where I was stationed. He was disguised as a peon, coming to sell provisions in our camp. When I stopped him he slashed at me with his knife, although the wound he inflicted was but slight, and I, in return, fired at him as he ran. I hit him, as drops of blood on the ground showed, although I think his wound, like mine, was slight."

Captain Middleton smiled.