She was clinging to him as if they had loved through all eternity.

No wonder he could not speak.

Had he uttered a syllable, he must have broken down like the girl herself.
San Benavides supplied a timely tonic.
Throwing aside the rags which covered him, he tried to rise.

Philip caught a glimpse of the uniform, the sheen of the naked sword.

He was about to tear himself from Iris's clasp and spring at this new enemy when the Brazilian spoke.
"Mil diabos!" he cried in a rage, "this cursed Inglez still lives, and here am I posing before him like an old hag." His voice alone saved him from being pinned to the floor by a man who had adopted no light measures with others of his countrymen during the past half-hour, as the dented gun-barrel, minus its stock, well showed.
But the captain's mortified fury helped to restore Philip's sanity.
Lifting Iris's glowing face to his own, he whispered: "Tell me, sweetheart, how comes it that our Brazilian friend is here ?" "He ran away when some shots were fired," which was rather unfair of Iris.