tonishment at what he saw, Young
Glory extinguished the light, left the hut, and closed the door securely
after him.

Then he unhitched the horse, sprang into the saddle and galloped away.

Sailors do not excel as horsemen, but Young Glory was an exception to
the rule. Before he had enlisted he had passed several years in the
west, and the animal who tried to unseat him had a very difficult task
to perform.

"The road to Valmosa," he muttered. "Guess that won't be hard to find. I
know where Valmosa lies, and roads are not very plentiful in this
benighted land, so I won't have much trouble if I stick to the one I'm
on."

Young Glory's danger was in falling into the hands of some Spaniards.
They might happen to be comrades of Ruiz, and it would be almost
impossible to deceive them. But this did not daunt him. He had
understood all these dangers before he took this desperate project in
hand, and he thought of them now, merely because he had nothing else to
do.

The ride exhilarated him, and his spirits rose as he proceeded.

Gradually the path--it was really little better than a mule
path--descended towards the sea, and Young Glory was pleased because he
knew Valmosa was on the coast, and this seemed to show him he was on the
right road.

However, his reflections were cut short with startling rapidity.

A dozen men sprang from the surrounding trees. Two men sprang forward
and seized his horse's bridle, the others, with threatening gestures,
threw themselves in his way, barring his further progress.

"Caramba, senor, but you're in a hurry," said a man, who appeared to be
their leader.

"You have judged rightly, senor," answered Young Glory, "I am in a
hurry. Let me proceed."

The men laughed loudly.

"You are a Spanish officer. You must be mad to talk in this way," was
the stern answer.

"And who are you?" asked Young Glory.

"We are Cuban patriots."

"Patriots! Then I'm safe!" exclaimed the boy, softly.

"He must die!" whispered several of the men. "We give no quarter now,
since those Spanish wretches have commenced shooting their prisoners in
cold blood."

Half a dozen pistols were leveled at the boy, and as many machetes
flashed in the air.

A crisis had come.

"Stop!" cried Young Glory, boldly. "I am no Spaniard."

"Then what are you?"

"I am an American sailor."

The weapons that had threatened Young Glory's life were at once lowered,
but the men seemed to receive his statement with grea