ey bandaged our eyes with handkerchiefs. They led
us along hollow-sounding alleys; beneath echoing archways; down scores
of stone steps; through mouldy passages. Lower yet, where a strong
flavour of cooking assailed our sense of smell. A couple more downward
flights, and then we paused--heard a jingling of big keys--an opening of
ponderous doors--and here we were.

Here, in a subterranean vault, I know not how many feet below sunlight.
The air is close and vaporous; the domed chamber is damp and musty. They
have divested us of all our portable property save a few cigarettes
which we have secreted in a dark corner, and there is nothing to be had
in the way of refreshment for love or money.

Yes, for money. I have bribed the sentinel, who occasionally eclipses
our square of window, with all my ready cash, and he has brought us
contraband cups of weak coffee. Will he treat our dark domestic as well?
We try him, and find that he won't.

What's o'clock? We have no means of ascertaining this, as Phoebus, who
might have suggested the time of day, is a long way out of sight. Our
sentinel says it is early morning.

Hark! A sound of many footsteps; a rattling of arms and keys. Enter our
military jailer with a dozen soldiers to release us from our present
quarters. Our eyes are bandaged as before, and after passing up several
flights of steps in another direction, our sight is restored: the scene
changes, and we are discovered, like the Prince of Denmark, upon another
part of the platform. Our faithful vassal is with us, looking as much
like a ghost as it is possible for a negro to appear. They have tied his
arms behind him with cords, and serve us in the same manner; while eight
soldiers encircle us at respectful distances, and deliberately proceed
to load their weapons. The negro trembles with affright, and falls on
his knees. Misericordia! they are going to shoot us, he thinks; for he
is ignorant of the Spanish custom of loading in the presence of the
prisoner before escorting him from one jail to another.

To another? Santo Dios! Then we are prisoners still? I think of the
victim of Santa Margherita and his many prisons, and begin to wonder how
many years of incarceration we shall experience.

'En marcha!' Eight 'militares' and a sergeant place us in their midst,
and in this way we march to town, a distance of seven miles. Our
sergeant proves to be more humane than his superior, and on the uneven
road pauses to screw up