he sun rises over the hills out there, you four shall all be
shot for spies and traitors. Take them away!"

CHAPTER XXI

TO BE SHOT AT SUNRISE!

The Carlist soldiers conducted Rollo and his three friends to the
granary of the mill-house, where in the mean time they were permitted to
recline as best they might upon the various piles of grain heaped here
and there in preparation for the work of the morrow.

The Carlists were mostly quite young, Basques and Navarrese, whose jokes
and horseplay, even after a long day's marching, were boyish and
natural.

Rollo and El Sarria were placed at one side of the granary, and at the
other Etienne and John Mortimer lay at full length upon a heap of corn.
Between paced a sentry with musket and bayonet.

The kindly lads had, with characteristic generosity, brought their
prisoners a portion of their scanty rations--sausages and dried fish
with onions and cheese, all washed down with copious draughts of red
wine.

As before, owing to the position of Sarria among its mountains, the
night fell keen and chill. The Carlists slept and snored, all save the
double guards placed over the prisoners.

"Shall we try a rush? Is it any use?" whispered Rollo to El Sarria.

The outlaw silently shook his head. He had long ago considered the
position, and knew that it was impossible. The windows were mere slits.
There was only one trap-door in the floor, and that was closed.
Moreover, there were fifty Carlists asleep in the loft, and the floor
below was the bed-chamber of as many more.

Cast back upon his own thoughts, Rollo reviewed many things--his short
life, the reckless ups-and-downs in which he had spent it--but all
without remorse or regret.

"I might have been a lawyer, and lived to a hundred!" he said to
himself. "It is better as it is. If I have done little good, perhaps I
have not had time to do a great deal of harm."

Then very contentedly he curled himself up to sleep as best he might,
only dreamily wondering if little Concha would be sorry when she heard.

Ramon Garcia sat with his eyes fixed on the sentry who had ceased his
to-and-fro tramp up the centre, and now leaned gloomily against the
wall, his hands crossed about the cross-bar of his sword-bayonet.

Across the granary John Mortimer reclined with his head in his hands,
making vows never to enter Spain or trust himself under the leadership
of a mad Scot, if this once he should get clear off.

"It isn't the b