Midnight brought a moist, warm breeze and a few formless clouds which served at times to dimly obscure the moon.  Watching the clouds, O’Reilly hoped that they might prove to be the heralds of a storm.  None came.  When the moon had finally crept down into the tree-tops old Hilario stepped upon his cigarette, then began silently to saddle up.  The others followed with alacrity, and fell in behind him as he led the way into the forest.  They no longer ventured to speak aloud; nothing but the occasional sound of a hoof striking upon root or stone, the creak of leather, or the rustle of branches against passing bodies gave evidence that mounted men were en route.

When they had covered a couple of miles Hilario reined in and the others crowded close.  Ahead, dimly discernible against the night sky, there appeared to be a thinning of the woods.  After listening for a moment or two, Hilario dismounted and slipped away; the three riders sat their saddles with ears strained.  Once more the myriad voices of the night became audible—­the chirping of crickets, the strident call of tree-toads, the whining undertone of the mosquitoes.

Hilario returned with word that all was well, and each man dismounted to muffle the feet of his horse with rags and strips of gunny-sack provided for the purpose.  Then, one by one, they moved forward to the edge of the clearing.  The trocha lay before them.

After the cavernous obscurity of the jungle the night seemed suddenly to lighten and O’Reilly found himself looking out over a level waste of stumps and tree-trunks perhaps a quarter of a mile wide, extending right and left as far as he could see.  Against the luminous western horizon opposite the inky forest stood like a wall.  Midway of the clearing there was a railroad grade with a telephone-pole or two limned against the sky.  The clearing was silent and to all appearances deserted; nothing stirred, no sign of life appeared anywhere.  And yet, as the American studied the place, he had a queer, uncomfortable sensation that it was thickly peopled and that eyes were peering out at him from the gloom.  Blurred forms took shape, phantom figures moved along the embankment, stumps stirred.

O’Reilly felt a pair of reins thrust into his hand and found Hilario examining a large pair of tinner’s shears.

“Do you wish me to go with you?” he inquired of the guide.

The latter shook his head.  “Antonio will go; he will keep watch while I clear a path.  If you hear or see anything—­”

Jacket interrupted with a sibilant:  “Psst!  Look!  Yonder!”

A lantern-like illumination had leaped out of the blackness and now approached swiftly down the railroad grade.

O’Reilly laid a heavy hand upon the old Camagueyan and inquired in sharp suspicion, “What does that mean—­an alarm?”

There was a breathless moment during which the four men followed the erratic course of the spark.  Then Antonio chuckled.  “Alabaos!  A light-bug,” said he.  “Don’t you know a cucullo when you see one?” He cautiously tested the ejector of his carbine and tightened the cord that served as his belt.