indifferent cook, but I can at least give you
enough to eat. Those brigands of yours have stored sufficient food
here for an army."

Carrying a torch, I accompanied him round the cavern, gazing in wonder
at the piles of Indian corn, the heaps of potatoes, and the strings of
charqui, the last suspended from the walls.

"Come," said I, "there is no need to starve in the midst of plenty.
What shall we have? Roast potatoes and jerked beef? The potatoes will
require the least attention."

"And they are not bad if you are downright hungry, as I was when we
crept in here after the affair at Mirabe. There's a smart soldier
leading your men, Crawford."

"Yes; he is an Englishman named Miller, and a very fine fellow. But
how come you to be here?"

"We'll talk over these things presently. Meanwhile, let us cook the
potatoes. Bring another handful; I daresay two of the men will be able
to eat a little breakfast."

"If it is breakfast!"

"It must be for us, because we had our supper before you paid us so
unceremonious a visit. Of course we were betrayed."

"Well, as to that," I replied, "you must ask the colonel; I only acted
under orders."

"Just so. Well, I am very pleased to see you, though I dislike the way
in which you introduced yourself. Cut this piece of beef up finely
while I fetch some salt."

"Have you any?" I asked, in some surprise.

"Oh yes. Your amiable brigands know how to stock a larder."

Two of the wounded men were able to eat, and they were very grateful
for the food we took them. Then we returned to the fire, piled up some
sacks to serve as seats, and began our meal.

It was all most strange to me and very delightful; it might have been a
chapter lifted bodily from one of my favourite story-books. There
seemed to be a piratical flavour about the whole business.

"Perhaps it is as well that I gave my parole," exclaimed the major
thoughtfully, taking off another potato.

"Why?" I asked.

"I might have felt tempted to escape," he replied, looking at the coil
of rope.

"You forget your jailer carries a pistol," I remarked, laughing.

"An empty one," he suggested, shrugging his shoulders. "No, no, my
boy; my parole is your only safeguard."

"It is a sufficient one, at any rate."

"Yes," said he, rather dreamily, I thought. "The honour of a Mariano
is sacred; my father taught me that. And yet--and yet, do you know,
Crawford," he added, in a sharper tone, "I doubt if a parole