The hoof-strokes of the horse had been observed, and soon several men, Cubans and negroes, came from the building. "Carlos!" cried several. They turned to Walter. "What does this mean, señor?" came in Spanish.
"Spaniards," answered Walter, and pointed behind him. Then he pointed to the gun and to the wounds Carlos had received, and also showed his own bloody ear and scalp.
The dumb language was instantly comprehended, and two men carried the unconscious negro into the hut, while others took charge of the horse and conducted Walter inside. The lad found the small abode crowded with insurgents, who had come in to escape the drenching rain, and the air was heavy with the smoke of cigarettes and the smell of a stew seasoned with garlic, which was cooking over a fire in the rear. A constant flow of conversation was kept up, of which he understood only an occasional word.
Poor Carlos was in a bad way, and by morning it was easy to see he could be removed only with difficulty. Yet he was cheerful, or tried to be so, and smiled when Walter came to him.
"I have news for you," he said, in his broken
