“Senor Fortescue?”

“Thank you—­with Senor Fortescue.  That is all, I think.  Take him to the guard-house, sergeant—­Stay!  If you will give me your parole not to leave the town without my permission, or make any attempt to escape, you may remain at large, Senor Fortescue.”

“For how long?”

“Two days.”

As the escape in the circumstances seemed quite out of the question, I gave my parole without hesitation, and asked the same favor for my companion.

“No” (sternly).  “I could not believe a rebel Creole on his oath.  Take him away, sergeant, and see that he is well guarded.  If you let him escape I will hang you in his stead.”

Despite our bonds Carmen and I contrived to shake hands, or rather, touch fingers, for it was little more.

“We shall meet again.”  I whispered.  “If I had known that he would not take your parole I would not have given mine.  Let courage be our watchword. Hasta manana!”

“Pray take a seat, Senor Fortescue, and we will have a talk about old times in Spain.  Allow me to offer you a cigar—­I beg your pardon, I was forgetting that my fellows had tied you up.  Captain Guzman (to one of the loungers), will you kindly loose Mr. Fortescue? Gracias! Now you can take a cigar, and here is a chair for you.”

I was by no means sure that this sudden display of urbanity boded me good, but being a prisoner, and at Griscelli’s mercy, I thought it as well to humor him, so accepted the cigar and seated myself by his side.

After a talk about the late war in Spain, in the course of which Griscelli told some wonderful stories of the feats he had performed there (for the man was egregiously vain) he led the conversation to the present war in South America, and tried to worm out of me where I had been and what I had done since my arrival in the country.  I answered him courteously and diplomatically, taking good care to tell him nothing that I did not want to be known.

“I see,” he said, “it was a love of adventure that brought you here—­you English are always running after adventures.  A caballero like you can have no sympathy with these rascally rebels.”

“I beg your pardon; I do sympathize with the rebels; not, I confess, as warmly as I did at first, and if I had known as much as I know now, I think I should have hesitated to join them.”

“How so?”

“They kill prisoners in cold blood, and conduct war more like savages than Christians.”

“You are right, they do.  Yes, killing prisoners in cold blood is a brutal practice!  I am obliged to be severe sometimes, much to my regret.  But there is only one way of dealing with a rebellion—­you must stamp it out; civil war is not as other wars.  Why not join us, Senor Fortescue?  I will give you a command.”

“That is quite out of the question, General Griscelli; I am not a mere soldier of fortune.  I have eaten these people’s salt, and though I don’t like some of their ways, I wish well to their cause.”