pleasant coolness. For a few minutes Ridge lay in a state of lazy
content, gazing with languid interest at his surroundings. The sky, so
far as he could see it, was cloudless, the crisp leaves of a tall palm
close at hand rustled in a light breeze like the patter of rain, gayly
plumaged paroquets and nonpareils flitted across his line of vision,
and the air was filled with the pleasant odor of burning wood, mingled
with the fragrance of a cigarette that Dionysio smoked while squatted
on his heels before a small fire. A little beyond, Señorita, tethered
to a tree, cropped at a small patch of coarse grass, and--but Ridge
could not credit his senses until he had rubbed his eyes vigorously to
make sure that they were doing their duty--another horse was sharing
the grass-plot with her. As he assured himself of this, Ridge sat up,
and was about to demand an explanation of the negro, when his question
was checked by another sight still more amazing.

A human figure staring fixedly at him with glaring eyes was rigidly
bound to the trunk of a near-by tree. It was that of a young man in
the uniform of a Spanish officer. His face was covered with blood,
upon which a swarm of flies had settled, and he was so securely
fastened that he could not move hand nor foot. He was also gagged so
that he could make no sound beyond an inarticulate groan, which he
uttered when he saw that Ridge was awake and looking at him.

With an exclamation of dismay the young American leaped from his
hammock. At the same moment Dionysio rose to his feet with a broad
grin on his black face, and spoke for the first time since Ridge had
made his acquaintance.

"Him Holguin Spaniard," he said, pointing to the prisoner. "Me catch
him. Keep him for Americano to kill. Now you shoot him."