"I hear," he said, "that you have seen Santa Anna."

"More than once. Several times when I was a prisoner in Mexico, and
again when I was recaptured."

"What do you think of him?"

The gaze of the bright eyes fixed upon Ned became intense and
concentrated.

"A great man! A wickedly great man!"

Roylston turned his look away, and interlaced his fingers thoughtfully.

"A good description, I think," he said. "You have chosen your words
well. A singular compound is this Mexican, a mixture of greatness,
vanity and evil. I may talk to you more of him some day. But I tell you
now that I am particularly desirous of not being carried a prisoner to
him."

He lifted the rifle, put its stock to his shoulder, and drew a bead.

"I think I could hit at forty or fifty yards in this good moonlight," he
said.

He replaced the rifle across his knees and sighed. Ned was curious, but
he would not ask questions, and he walked back to his old position by
the bank. Here he made himself easy, and kept his eyes on the deep
trench that had been cut by the stream. The shadows were dark against
the bank, but it seemed to him that they were darker than they had been