"Bind me the arms of this man and blindfold him."

The order was deftly obeyed.

"Now take him from my sight and shoot him."

Seizing Ridge by the shoulders, the men began to drag him away.

Until this moment he had not known whether to acknowledge himself an
American or claim to be a Spaniard, nor had he believed that the
extremely courteous leader of bandits with whom he had just
breakfasted, and who might be either a Cuban patriot or a Spanish
guerilla, would do him serious injury. Now, moved by an agony of
terror, he shouted out the word whispered to him a few hours before by
the commander of the _Speedy_, the secret countersign of the Cuban
Junta.

Its effect was magical. The men who were dragging him to a summary
execution loosed their hold and stared at him in amazement, while the
young leader sprang to where Ridge stood, tore the bandages from his
eyes, severed his bonds, and embraced him.

"Why, my brother, did you not disclose your identity long ago?" he said.

"Because," replied Ridge, in a voice that still trembled from his
recent fright, "I knew not to which side you belonged."

"What! Did you for a moment think that I might be a vile Spaniard? I,
Enrico del Concha, a Cuban of the Cubans? Alas! that such a suspicion