“Has any of you heard of Dubrosc on the route?” I inquired of my comrades.

No; nothing had been heard of him since the escape of Lincoln.

“Faix, Captain,” said the Irishman, “it’s meself that thinks Mister Dubrosc won’t throuble any ov us any more. It was a purty lick that same, ayquil to ould Donnybrook itself.”

“It is not easy to kill a man with a single blow of a clubbed rifle,” observed Clayley; “unless, indeed, the lock may have struck into his skull. But we are still living, and I think that is some evidence that the deserter is dead. By the way, how has the fellow obtained such influence as he appeared to have among them, and so soon, too?”

“I think, Lieutenant,” replied Raoul, “Monsieur Dubrosc has been here before.”

“Ha! say you so?” I inquired, with a feeling of anxiety.

“I remember, Captain, some story current at Vera Cruz, about a Creole having married or run away with a girl of good family there. I am almost certain Dubrosc was the name; but it was before my time, and I am unacquainted with the circumstances, I remember, however, that the fellow was a gambler, or something of the sort; and the occurrence made much noise in the country.”

I listened with a sickening anxiety to every word of these details. There was a painful correspondence between them and what I already knew. The thought that this monster could be in any way connected with her was a disagreeable one. I questioned Raoul no further. Even could he have detailed every circumstance, I should have dreaded the relation.

Our conversation was interrupted by the creaking of a rusty hinge. The door opened, and several men entered. Our blinds were taken off, and, oh, how pleasant to look upon the light! The door had been closed again, and there was only one small grating, yet the slender beam through this was like the bright noonday sun. Two of the men carried earthen platters filled with frijoles, a single tortilla in each platter. They were placed near our heads, one for each of us.

“It’s blissid kind of yez, gentlemen,” said Chane; “but how are we goin’ to ate it, if ye plaze?”

“The plague!” exclaimed Clayley; “do they expect us to lick this up without either hands, spoons, or knives?”

“Won’t you allow us the use of our fingers?” asked Raoul, speaking to one of the guerilleros.

“No,” replied the man gruffly.

“How do you expect us to eat, then?”

“With your mouths, as brutes should. What else?”

“Thank you, sir; you are very polite.”

“If you don’t choose that, you can leave it alone,” added the Mexican, going out with his companions, and closing the door behind them.