We emerged from the forest and entered the fields. All silent. No sign or sound of a suspicion. The house still standing and safe.

“The guerillero must have been waiting for someone whom he expected by the Medellin road. Ride on, Raoul!”

“Captain,” said the man in a whisper, and halting at the end of the guardaraya (enclosure).

“Well?”

“Someone passed out at the other end.”

“Some of the domestics, no doubt. You may ride on, and—never mind; I will take the advance myself.”

I brushed past, and kept up the guardaraya. In a few minutes we had reached the lower end of the pond, where we halted. Here we dismounted; and, leaving the men, Clayley and I stole cautiously forward. We could see no one, though everything about the house looked as usual.

“Are they abed, think you?” asked Clayley.

“No, it is too early—perhaps below, at supper.”

“Heaven send! we shall be most happy to join them. I am as hungry as a wolf.”

We approached the house. Still all silent.

“Where are the dogs?”

We entered.

“Strange!—no one stirring. Ha! the furniture gone!”

We passed into the porch in the rear, and approached the stairway.

“Let us go below—can you see any light?”

I stooped and looked down. I could neither hear nor see any signs of life. I turned, and was gazing up at my friend in wonderment, when my eye was attracted by a strange movement upon the low branches of the olive-trees. The next moment a dozen forms dropped to the ground; and, before we could draw sword or pistol, myself and comrade were bound hand and foot and flung upon our backs.

At the same instant we heard a scuffle down by the pond. Two or three shots were fired; and a few minutes after a crowd of men came up, bringing with them Chane, Lincoln, and Raoul as prisoners.

We were all dragged out into the open ground in front of the rancho, where our horses were also brought and picketed.

Here we lay upon our backs, a dozen guerilleros remaining to guard us. The others went back among the olives, where we could hear them laughing, talking, and yelling. We could see nothing of their movements, as we were tightly bound, and as helpless as if under the influence of nightmare.

As we lay, Lincoln was a little in front of me. I could perceive that they had doubly bound him in consequence of the fierce resistance he had made. He had killed one of the guerilleros. He was banded and strapped all over, like a mummy, and he lay gnashing his teeth and foaming with fury. Raoul and the Irishman appeared to take things more easily, or rather more recklessly.

“I wonder if they are going to hang us to-night, or keep us till morning? What do you think, Chane?” asked the Frenchman, laughing as he spoke.

“Be the crass! they’ll lose no time—ye may depind on that same. There’s not an ounce av tinder mercy in their black hearts; yez may swear till that, from the way this eel-skin cuts.”

“I wonder, Murt,” said Raoul, speaking from sheer recklessness, “if Saint Patrick couldn’t help us a bit. You have him round your neck, haven’t you?”

“Be the powers, Rowl! though ye be only jokin’, I’ve a good mind to thry his holiness upon thim. I’ve got both him and the mother undher me jacket, av I could only rache thim.”

“Good!” cried the other. “Do!”

“It’s aisy for ye to say ‘Do’, when I can’t budge so much as my little finger.”

“Never mind. I’ll arrange that,” answered Raoul. “Hola, Señor!” shouted he to one of the guerilleros.

“Quien?” (Who?) said the man, approaching.

“Usted su mismo,” (Yourself), replied Raoul.

“Que cosa?” (What is it?)

“This gentleman,” said Raoul, still speaking in Spanish, and nodding towards Chane, “has a pocket full of money.”

A hint upon that head was sufficient; and the guerilleros, who, strangely enough, seemed to have overlooked this part of their duty, immediately commenced rifling our pockets, ripping them open with their long knives. They were not a great deal the richer for their pains, our joint purse yielding about twenty dollars. Upon Chane there was no money found; and the man whom Raoul had deceived repaid the latter by a curse and a couple of kicks.

The saint, however, turned up, attached to the Irishman’s neck by a leathern string; and along with him a small crucifix, and a pewter image of the Virgin Mary.

This appeared to please the guerilleros; and one of them, bending over the Irishman, slackened his fastenings a little—still, however, leaving him bound.

“Thank yer honner,” said Chane; “that’s dacent of ye. That’s what Misther O’Connell wud call amaylioration. I’m a hape aysier now.”

“Mucho bueno,” said the man, nodding and laughing.

“Och, be my sowl, yes!—mucho bueno. But I’d have no objecshun if yer honner wud make it mucho bettero. Couldn’t ye just take a little turn aff me wrist here?—it cuts like a rayzyer.”

I could not restrain............