on. This was done. The chains
were fastened around his ankles; his arms were unbound, and he was left
to solitude and darkness.

Poor savage captive! Alone, abandoned, and chained to the wall of the
little cell he was in, so closely that he could barely reach the
low, rough bench on which to sit. But Pomponio could have borne his
imprisonment patiently, even cheerfully, had the rebellion only taken
place, successfully or not. That was the maddening thought. He buried
his head in his hands. Well he knew that all hope was over. Even though
he might manage to escape, he would find the Indians dispersed and
in hiding, too frightened at the effect his capture might have on the
Spaniards, and the result to themselves. All was over. He had nothing
farther to live for. Even the thought of Rosa failed to rouse him,
for he knew he had been too wicked in the eyes of the fathers to be
permitted to see her again--whether in prison or liberated, if such a
thing could have been dreamed of, she was dead to him.

Yet the love of life is implanted too deeply in the human breast to die
before life itself deserts our mortal body. As Pomponio crouched there,
bound and forsaken, a passionate feeling of revolt at his doom arose
within him. Was he to be killed; must he leave this earth, beautiful
to him even when in the lowest depths of misery, and that, too, at the
command of his enemies, who had stolen his country and made him and his
kindred slaves? They should not take his life, the only thing they had
left him. And with the wish came into his mind a plan of escape that
made him start.

When the soldiers arrested and imprisoned Pomponio, they neglected
to search him, thinking, no doubt, that by no possible means could he
escape from them, chained as securely as if to the solid rock itself.
Pomponio had, stuck in his belt underneath his shirt, a hunting-knife,
his trusty weapon and constant companion. No one who has not lived in
the wilderness can have any idea of the value of the hunting-knife. The
uses to which it can be put are countless. It is pocket-knife, scissors,
hatchet, dagger, and all cutting and stabbing instruments in one; it
will, moreover, take the place of revolver and rifle on many occasions,
and has one immense advantage over them--its utter silence. It is a
powerful, and, at need, murderous weapon.

Pomponio pulled out his knife from its leather sheath and examined it
by touch, for it was too dark to see it. He felt c