d 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."

[Illustration: "'Him Holguin Spaniard. Now you shoot him,' said the
Cuban."]

Thus saying, the negro handed Ridge a loaded pistol that he had taken
from the Spaniard, and then stepped aside with an air of ferocious
expectancy to note with what skill the latter would fire at the human
target thus provided.

Mechanically Ridge accepted the weapon, and with blazing eyes strode
towards the hapless Spaniard, who uttered a groan of agony, evidently
believing that his last moment had arrived. As the young trooper
passed the place where Dionysio had squatted, he snatched the negro's
big machete from the ground.

At this the latter chuckled with delight, evidently believing that the
blood-thirsty Americano was about to hew his victim in pieces, an
operation that, to him, would be vastly more entertaining than a mere
shooting. Then he stared in bewilderment; for, instead of cutting the
prisoner down, Ridge began to sever the lashings by which he was bound.
As the keen-edged machete cut through the last of these, the released
man fell forward in a faint, and the young American, catching him in
his arms, laid him on the sward. "Bring water!" he ordered, with a
sharp tone of authority, and the negro obeyed.

"You no kill him?" he asked, as he watched Ridge bathe the blood from
the unconscious man's face.

"Not now," was the evasive answer. "Where did you get him?"

Little by little, one word at a time, he gained from the taciturn negro
an idea of what had taken place while he slept. It seemed that, while
he had followed rough mountain trails in his roundabout course to and
from the refugee camp, there was a much better road to which they had
closely approached, when he was forced by exhaustion to call a halt.
After he fell asleep, Dionysio, going for water to a spring that he
knew of, had detected a sound of hoof-beats advancing along this road
from the direction of Holguin. Concealing himself near the sp