"Now give her to me," he said; and, tenderly lifting the light form,
Ridge placed it once more in his arms. The girl had been shot in the
back, and the cruel Mauser bullet, long but slender as a lead-pencil,
had passed through her body.

"My only hope is to get her to the nearest camp of refugees, and that
is still five miles away," said del Concha.

After that they rode in silence, the sorrowing lover, with his precious
burden leading the way, and the young American oppressed by the sadness
of the incident for which he felt wholly, though unwittingly to blame,
following with the spare horse. Mingled with our hero's self-reproach
was also a decided curiosity as to how del Concha would explain the
double part he had played the evening before.

As they advanced into the heart of the mountains, ever climbing, their
road grew rougher and narrower, until finally it was a mere trail.
Although they passed occasional ruins of huts, they did not see one
that was inhabited or habitable. Neither did they encounter a human
being until their destination was reached, though for the last mile of
their progress they were constantly watched by wild-looking figures
that peered at them from behind rocks or bushes. Often, after a single
glance at the horsemen, these ragged scouts would dart away, scurrying
through the brush with the noiseless speed of rabbits, and one able to
see them would have observed that all took the same direction. It was
towards a camp of Cuban refugees, snugly hidden in one of the most
inaccessible recesses of the mountains, and to it they bore the news of
approaching visitors.

Therefore the camp was in a state of expectancy even before the