ed, and the sounds of walking horses faded
out down the street. A few moments later, Armstrong, rifle in hand,
slipped out of the house and ran southward.

Captain Salezar, sitting at ease in his adobe house, poured himself
another drink of _aguardiente_ and rolled another corn-husk cigarette.
Lighting it from the candle he fell to pacing to and fro across the
small room. As the raw, potent liquor stimulated his imagination he
began to bow to imaginary persons, give orders to officers, and to
introduce himself as Colonel Salezar. From the barracks across the
corner of the square an occasional burst of laughter rang out, but these
were becoming more infrequent and less loud. He heard the grounding
gun-butt of the sentry outside his door as the soldier paused before
wheeling to retrace his steps over the beat.

The sentry paced along the narrow driveway and stopped at the outer
corner of the house to cast an envious glance across at the barracks
where he knew that his friends were engaged in a furtive game of
_monte_, which had started before he had gone on duty not a quarter of
an hour before. He turned slowly to pace back again and then suddenly
threw up his arms as his world became black. His falling firelock was
caught as it left his hands, and soon lay at the side of its gagged and
trussed owner in the blackness along the base of a driveway wall. Two
figures slipped toward the courtyard to the rear of the house and one of
them, taking the rifle of his companion, stopped at the corner of the
wall at the driveway. The other slipped to the door, gently tried the
latch and opened it, one hand hidden beneath the folds of a dirty
blanket. The door swung silently open and shut and the intruder cast a
swift glance around the room.

Captain Salezar grinned into the cracked mirror hanging on the wall,
stiffened to attention, and saluted the image in the glass.

"Colonel Salezar's orders, sir," he declaimed and then, staring with
unbelieving eyes at the apparition pushing out onto the mirror, crossed
himself, whirled and drew his sword almost in one motion.

The Delaware cringed and pulled at a lock of hair straggling down past
his eyes and held out a folded paper, swiftly placing a finger on his
lips.

"_Por le Capitan despues le Gobernador_," he whispered. "_Pronto!_"

The captain's anger and suspicion at so unceremonious an entry slowly
faded, but he did not lower the sword. The Delaware slid forward, abject
and fear