Сердца трех / Hearts of three. Уровень 3

The rest was easy. Half a dozen witnesses identified him as the murderer. The Jefe Politico himself so testified. Torres was in love with Leoncia, and his jealousy knew no limits.

Leoncia was sobbing on his shoulder, in his arms: “It is a cursed country, a cursed country.”

Francis remembered Henry, in his canvas pants, bare-footed, under his sombrero.

“They just knew I was guilty and wanted to punish me. Why delay? They knew Henry Morgan had killed Alfaro. They knew I was Henry Morgan,” he said

She was in his arms, her lips raised to his; and his own lips to hers.

“I love you, I love you,” she whispered.

“No, no,” he said. “Henry and I are too alike. It is Henry you love, and I am not Henry.”

She drew Henry’s ring from her finger, and threw it on the floor. Francis slipped Henry’s ring back on her finger and kissed her hand. When she passed out the door she turned and whispered:

“I love you.”

At ten o’clock they brought Francis to the gallows.

All San Antonio was present, including Leoncia, Enrico Solano, and his five tall sons. In vain Leoncia’s father and brothers protested that Francis was not the man. The Jefe Politico smiled.

They had tied Francis’ legs, and were tying his arms, when the voice of a singer was heard. Henry Morgan was entering. He pushed aside the guards at the gate.

The Jefe shrugged his shoulders and announced that he was ready to hang both men. But Francis, from the scaffold, shouted:

“You cannot hang a man without trial! He must have his trial!”

And when Francis had descended from the scaffold, the Comisario, with the Jefe, arrested Henry Morgan for the murder of Alfaro Solano.

Chapter IV

“We must work quickly,” Francis said to the Solanos.

“We must save him!” Leoncia cried out.

“All Gringos look alike to the Jefe,” Francis said. She was splendidly beautiful and wonderful, he thought. “We must get him out tonight.”

“Now listen,” Leoncia said.

“We Solanos cannot permit this… this execution. Our pride… our honor. We cannot permit it. Father, suggest something.”

And while Enrico Solano and his sons talked plans and projects, a house servant came, whispered in Leoncia’s ear, and led her away.

Around the corner, Alvarez Torres greeted her, bowed low with a sombrero in hand.

“The trial is over, Leoncia,” he said softly. “Tomorrow at ten o’clock is the time.