for a conspirator,
and would never be a match for the Cuban in guile.

"I see you would," the Cuban continued. "Well, I would rather have you
within my sight. Here is money. Tomorrow, an hour after sunrise, be at
the door of the hotel with the best horses you can find. I wish to be at
Millot by evening."

Stuart took the money and preceded Manuel into the town, chuckling
inwardly at his cleverness in outwitting this keen conspirator. But he
would have been less elated with his success if he had heard the Cuban
mutter, as he turned into the porch of the hotel,

"First, the father. Now, the son!"

CHAPTER III

THE BLOOD-STAINED CITADEL

A foul, slimy ooze, compounded of fat soil, rotting vegetation and
verdigris-colored scum, with a fainter green mark meandering through
it--such was the road to Millot.

Stuart and the Cuban, the boy riding ahead, were picking their away
across this noisome tract of land.

For a few miles out of Cap Haitien, where the finger of American
influence had reached, an air of decency and even of prosperity had
begun to return. Near the town, the road had been repaired. Fields, long
abandoned, showed signs of cultivation, anew.

Two hours' ride out, however, it became evident that the new power had
not reached so far. The road had dwindled to a trail of ruts, which
staggered hither and thither in an effort to escape the quagmires--which
it did not escape. Twice, already, Stuart's horse had been mired and he
had to get out of the saddle and half-crawl, half-wriggle on his belly,
in the smothering and sucking mud. So far, Manuel had escaped, by the
simple device of not passing over any spot which the boy had not tried
first.

This caution was not to serve him long, however.

At some sight or sound unnoticed by the rider, Manuel's horse shied from
off the narrow path of tussocks on which it was picking its way, and
swerved directly into the morass.

The Cuban, unwilling to get into the mud, tried to urge the little horse
to get out. Two or three desperate plunges only drove it down deeper and
it slipped backward into the clawing mire.

Manuel threw himself from his horse, but he had waited almost too long,
and the bog began to draw him down. He was forced to cry for help.

Stuart, turning in his saddle, saw what had happened. He jumped off his
horse and ran to help the Cuban. The distance was too great for a
hand-clasp. The ragged trousers which Stuart was wearing in his dis