It is their day of triumph.
Dragging across the plaza, with jingling spur, trailing leggings,
and sombrero pushed back on his head, the sergeant comes. He points
out Maxime to a companion. The new-comer conducts the American
prisoner to a roughly furnished room. A rawhide bed and a few
benches constitute its equipment. A heavy door is locked on him.
The prisoner throws himself on the hard couch and sleeps. He is
wakened by an Indian girl bringing food and water. Some blankets
are carelessly tossed in by a "mozo." The wanderer sleeps till the
birds are carolling loudly in the trees.
Hark! a bell! He springs to the window. Valois sees a little
chapel, with its wooden cross planted in front. Is there a priest
here? The boy is of the old faith. He looks for a possible friend
in the padre. Blessed bell of peace and hope!
Sturdy and serious is the major-domo who briskly enters Valois'
room.
"Do you speak Spanish?" he flatly demands in that musical tongue.
"Yes," says Maxime, without hesitation. He knows no subterfuge will
avail. His wits must guard his head.
"Give me your name, rank, and story," demands the steward.
Valois briefs his life history.
"You will be taken to the Commandante.
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