en you will put on his clothes and don
his sombrero, and as the moon rises late, and the prison is badly lighted,
I have no doubt we shall run the gauntlet of the guard without
difficulty.... That is a splendid ointment. You are almost as dark as a
negro. Now for your feet."

"My feet! I see! I must go out barefoot."

"Of course. Who ever heard of a zambo turnkey wearing shoes? I will hide
yours under my habit, and you can put them on afterward."

"You are a friend of Carera's, of course?"

"Yes; I am Salvador Carmen, the _teniente_ of Colonel Mejia, at your
service."

"Salvador Carmen! A name of good omen. You are saving me."

"I will either save you or perish with you. Take this dagger. Better to
die fighting than be strangled on the plaza."

"Is this your plan or Carera's?" I asked, as I put the dagger in my belt.

"Partly his and partly mine, I think. When he heard of your arrest, he
said that it concerned our honor to effect your rescue. The idea of
throwing a stone through the window was Carera's; that of personating a
priest was mine."

"But how did Carera find out where I was? and what assurance had you that
when I asked for a priest they would bring you?"

"That was easy enough. This is a small military post as well as an
occasional prison, some of the soldiers are always drinking at the
_pulperia_ round the corner, and they talk in their cups. I even know the
countersign for to-night. It is 'Baylen.' I saw them take you to the
tribunal, and as I knew that when you asked for a priest they would call
in the first whom they saw, just to save themselves the trouble of going
farther, I took care to be hereabout in this guise as you returned. I was
fortunate enough to meet you face to face, and you were sharp enough to
detect my true character at a glance."

"I am greatly indebted to you and Senor Carera--more than I can say. You
are risking your lives to save mine."

"That is nothing, my dear sir. I often risk my life twenty times in a day.
And what matters it? We are all under sentence of death. A few years and
there will be an end of us."

Salvador Carmen may have been twenty-six or twenty-eight years old. He was
of middle height and athletic build, yet wiry withal, in splendid
condition, and as hard as nails. Though darker than the average Spaniard,
his short, wavy hair and powerful, clear-cut features showed that his
blood was free from negro or Indian taint. His face bespoke a strange
mixture o