I had gone first," said Manuel quietly, turning to the guards, "not
one of you would have said a word!"

The negroes slunk away under his gaze. The accusation was true. They had
no love for the "whites." Only the fact that they believed Stuart to be
a negro boy had saved him.

The boy looked down at that profound dungeon, from which rose a faint
stench, and shuddered.

There was a heavy pause. Manuel was debating whether he dare try and
force the guards to show the way. If he ordered it, he would have to
force it through, or the prestige he had won would be lost. He dared
not. As between the terror of a white man's gun, and the terror of a
"ha'nt," the latter was the more powerful.

Motioning Stuart to enter and showing the narrow ledge around the pit
with the spotlight, he followed. Then he turned to the guards clustered
outside.

"Close the door!" he ordered, curtly.

This command was obeyed with alacrity. The negro guards were only too
anxious to see that hole in the wall shut. Suppose the ghost of
Christophe should come gliding out among them!

So far, the Cuban was safe. He had reached the Citadel and entered it.
He had no fear that the warders would open it again to spy on him.
Their terror was too real.

Raising the spotlight so that it flashed full upon Stuart's face, the
Cuban spoke.

"Understand me, now," he said curtly, and with a hard ring in his voice.
"How much of your story may be true and how much false I have not yet
found out. But, if what you say about hating Leborge is true, I will put
you in a place where you will be able to see him. You have a pistol, I
know. If you see Leborge raise pistol or knife against me, shoot, and
shoot quickly! I will make you rich!"

Stuart thought to himself that if the conspirators were to come to
quarreling, that was the very time he would keep still. He, certainly,
had no desire for bloodshed, nor any intention to fire at anybody, if he
could help it. But he only answered,

"I understand."

Manuel's intention was no less concealed. He planned either to reveal
the boy to his fellow-conspirators, or else, to reveal him to the negro
warders as a white intruder. Either way, he figured, there would be an
end to the boy.

By the light of his lamp, consulting a small manuscript chart of the
ruin, Manuel passed through many tortuous passages and dark chambers
until he came to a ruined wall. Climbing a few feet up the crumbling
stones, he set his eye to a cre