for the soldiers!" Padre Mateo called, his voice strong and loud.
"He will be held, never doubt," Dominguez panted, his knees on Alvitre's shoulders where he lay face to the floor.
Juan Molinero fastened the outlaw's pistol belt around him, and took the sabre in his hand.
"I'll see to the others," he said to Padre Mateo.
"God speed you, my son!" Padre Mateo replied. "Here," jerking off the hemp rope that was his girdle, holding it out to Dominguez, "this will hold him—bind him well."
Dominguez made a quick loop of the stout rope around Alvitre's arm, leaned over, reaching for the other one. Juan Molinero was at the door; the sharp clink of the heavy chain was in their ears. And Sebastian Alvitre, fox that had scorned and beaten the traps of many men, leaped to his feet, flinging those who clung to him aside as a man in the harvest flings sheaves of wheat. A spring, and he was on the low sill of the open window; a leap through the unfastened shutter, and he was gone in the dark.
Dominguez shouted; the last candle was blown out. They stood waiting; silent, expectant. Juan Molinero returned after a little while, to find them scarcely breathing in the dark house, where Dominguez had drawn them out of the range of windows behind his thick adobe walls.
"He was alone," Juan reported; "all I got was his horse. He slipped past me in the bushes."
