THE THREAD, THE KEY, AND THE DAGGER
When John Bedford rose the next morning he was several years younger.
He held himself erect, as became his youth, a little color had crept
into the pallid face, and his heart was still full of hope. He had seen
the light that Catarina had promised. Surely the world was making a
great change for him, and he reasoned again that, his present state
being so low, any possible change must be for the better.
But the day passed and nothing happened. Diego, the slouching soldier,
brought him his food, and, bearing in mind the vague words of Catarina,
he noticed it carefully while he ate. There was nothing unusual. It
was the same at his supper. The rosy cloud in which his hopes swam
faded somewhat, but he was still hopeful. No light had been promised for
the second night, but he watched for long hours, nevertheless, and he
could not restrain a sense of disappointment when he turned away.
A second day passed without event, and a third, and then a fourth. John
Bedford was overcome by a terrible depression. Catarina was old and
foolish, or perhaps she, too, had shown at last the cunning and trickery
that he began to ascribe to all these people. He would stay in that
cell all his life, fairly buried alive. A fierce, unreasoning anger
took hold of him. He would have flared out at stolid Diego who brought
the food, but he did not want those heavy chains put back on his ankles.
His head was now healed enough for the removal of the bandage, but a red
streak would remain for some time under the hair. Doubtless the hair
had saved him from a fracture of the skull. Every time he put his hand
to the wound, which was often, his anger against de Armijo rose. It was
that cold, silent anger which is the most terrible and lasting of all.
Although he was back in the depths, John felt that the brief spell of
hope had been of help to him. His wound had healed more rapidly, and he
was sure that he was physically stronger. Yet the black depression
remained. It was even painful for him to look through the slit at his
piece of the slope, which he sometimes called his mountain garden. He
avoided it, as a place of hope that had failed. On the sixth day, Diego
brought him his dinner a little after the dinner hour. He was sitting
on the edge of his cot and he bit into a tamale. His teeth encountered
something tough and fibrous, and he was about to throw it down in
disgust. Then the words of Catarina, those words which he had begun to
despise, came suddenly back to him. He put the tamale down and began to
eat a tortilla, keeping his eye on Diego, who slouched by the wall in
the attitude of a Mexican of the lower classes, that lazy, dreaming
attitude that they can maintain, for hours.
Presently Diego glanced at the loophole, and in an instant John whipped
the tamale off the plate and thrust it under the cover of the cot. Then
he went on calmly with his eating, and drank the usual amount of bad
coffee. Diego, who had noticed nothing, took the empty tray and went
out, carefully locking the heavy door behind him. Then John Bedford did
something that showed his wonderful power of self-restraint. He did not
rush to the bed, eager to read what the tamale might contain, but
strolled to the loophole and looked out for at least a quarter of an
hour. He did not wish any trick to be played upon him by a sudden
return of Diego. Yet he was quivering in every nerve with impatience.
When he felt that he was safe, he returned to the cot and took out the
tamale. He carefully pulled it open, and in the middle he found the
tough, fibrous substance that his teeth had met. He had half expected a
paper of some kind, rolled closely together, that the writing might not
perish, and what he really did find caused a disappointment so keen that
he uttered a low cry of pain.
He held it up in his hand. It was nothing more than a small package of
thread, such as might have been put in a thimble. What could it mean?
Of what possible use was a coil of fifty yards or so of thread that
would not sustain the weight of half a pound? Was he to escape through
the loophole on that as a rope? He looked at the loophole four inches
broad, and then at the tiny thread, and it seemed to him such a pitiful
joke that he sat down on the cot and laughed, not at the joke itself,
but at any one who was foolish enough to perpetrate such a thing.
He tested the thread. It was stronger than he had thought. Then he put
it on his knee, took his head in his two hands, and sat staring at the
thread for a long time, concentrating his thoughts and trying to evolve
something from this riddle. It did mean something. No one would go to
so much trouble to play a miserable joke on a helpless captive like
himself. Catarina certainly would not do it, and she had given him the
hint about the food, a hint that had come true. He kept his mind upon
the one point so steadily and with so much force that his brain grew
hot, and the wound, so nearly cured, began to ache again. Yet he kept
at it, studying out every possible twist and turn of the riddle. At
last he tested the thread again. It was undeniably strong, and then he
looked at the loophole. Only one guess savored of possibility. He must
hang the thread out of the loophole.
He ate the rest of the tamale, hid the little package under his
clothing, and at night, after supper, when the darkness was heavy, he
threw the end of the thread through the long slot, a cast in which he
did not succeed until about the twelfth attempt. Then he let the thread
drop down. He knew about how many feet it was to the pavement below,
and he let out enough with three or four yards for good count. Then he
found that he had several yards left, which he tied around one of the
iron bars at the edge of the loophole. It was a black thread, and,
although some one might see it by daylight, there was not one chance in
a thousand that any one would see it at night.
"Fishing," he said to himself, as he lay down on his cot, intending to
sleep awhile, but to draw in the thread before the day came. It might
be an idle guess, he could not even know that the thread was not
clinging to the stone wall, instead of reaching the ground, but there
was relief in action, in trying something. He fell asleep finally, and
when he awoke he sprang in an instant to the floor. The fear came with
his waking senses that he might have slept too long, and that it was
broad daylight. The fear was false. It was still night, with only the
moon shining at the loophole. But he judged that most of the night had
passed, and his impatience told him that if anything was going to happen
it had happened already. He went to the window. His thread was there,
tied to the bar and, like a fisherman, he began to pull it in. He felt
this simile himself. "Drawing in the line," he murmured. "Now I wonder
if I have got a bite."
Although he spoke lightly to himself, as if a calm man would soothe an
excitable one, he felt the cold chill that runs down one's spine in
moments of intense excitement. The moonlight was good, and he watched
the black thread come in, inch by inch, while the hand that drew it
trembled. But he soon saw that there was no weight at the other end,
and down his heart went again into the blackest depths of black despair.
Nevertheless, he continued to pull on the thread, and, as it emerged
from the darkness into the far end of the loophole, he thought he saw
something tied on the end, although he was not sure, it looked so small
and dim. Here he paused and leaned against the wall, because he
suddenly felt weak in both mind and body. These alternations between
hope and despair were shattering to one who had been confined so long
between four walls. The very strength of his desire for it might make
him see something at the end of the thread when nothing was really
there.
He recovered himself and pulled in the thread, and now hope surged up in
a full tide. Something was on the end of the thread. It was a little
piece of paper not more than an inch long, rolled closely and tied
tightly around the center with the thread. He drew up his stool and sat
down on it by the loophole, where the moonlight fell. Then he carefully
picked loose the knot and unrolled the paper. The light was good
enough, and he read these amazing words:
"Don't give up hope.
Your brother is here.
He received your letter.
Put out the thread
Again to-morrow night.
Read and destroy this."
John leaned against the wall. His surprise and joy were so great that
he was overpowered. He realized now that his hope had merely been a
forlorn one, an effort of the will against spontaneous despair. And yet
the miracle had been wrought. His letter, in some mysterious manner,
had got through to Phil, and Phil had come. He must have friends, too,
because the letter had not been written by Phil. It was in a strange
handwriting. But this could be no joke of fate. It was too powerful,
too convincing. Everything fitted too well together. It must have
started somehow with Catarina, because all her presages had come true.
She was the cook, she had put the thread in the tamale. How had the
others reached her?
But it was true. His letter had gone through, and the brave young boy
whom he had left behind had come. He was somewhere about the Castle of
Montevideo, and since such wonders had been achieved already, others
could be done. From that moment John Bedford never despaired. After
reading the letter many times, he tore it into minute fragments, and,
lest they should be seen below and create suspicion, he ate them all and
with a good appetite. Then he rolled up the thread, put it next to his
body, and, for the first time in many nights, slept so soundly that he
did not awake until Diego brought him his breakfast. Then he ate with a
remarkable appetite, and after Diego had gone he began to walk up and
down the cell with vigorous steps. He also did many other things which
an observer, had one been possible, would have thought strange.
John not only walked back and forth in his cell, but he went through as
many exercises as his lack of gymnastic equipment permitted, and he
continued his work at least an hour. He wished to get back his strength
as much as possible for some great test that he felt sure was coming.
If he were to escape with the help of Phil and unknown others, he must
be strong and active. A weakling would have a poor chance, no matter
how numerous his friends. He had maintained this form of exercise for a
long period after his imprisonment, but lately he had become so much
depressed that he had discontinued it.
He felt so good that he chaffed Diego when he came back with his food at
dinner and supper. Diego had long been a source of wonder to John. It
was evident that he breathed and walked, because John had seen him do
both, and he could speak, because at rare intervals John had heard him
utter a word or two, but this power of speech seemed to be merely
spasmodic. Now, while John bantered him, he was as stolid as any wooden
image of Aztecs or Toltecs, although John spoke in Spanish, which, bad
as it was, Diego could understand.
He devoted the last hours of the afternoon to watching his distant
garden. It had always been a pleasant landscape to him, but now it was
friendlier than ever. That was a fine cactus, and it was a noble forest
of dwarf pine or cedar--he wished he did know which. An hour after the
dark had fully come he let the thread out again.
"This beats any other fishing I ever did," he murmured. "Well, it ought
to. It's fishing for one's life."
He was calmer than on the night before, and fell asleep earlier, but he
had fixed his mind so resolutely on a waking time at least an hour
before daylight that he awoke almost at the appointed minute. Then he
tiptoed across the cold floor to the thread. Nobody could have heard
him through those solid walls, but the desire for secrecy was so strong
that he unconsciously tiptoed, nevertheless. He pulled the thread, and
he felt at once that something heavy had been fastened to the other end.
Then he pulled more slowly. The thread was very slender, and the weight
seemed great for so slight a line. If it were to break, the tragedy
would be genuinely terrible. He had heard of the sword suspended by a
single hair, and it seemed to him that he was in some such case. But the
thread was stronger than John realized--it had been chosen so on
purpose--and it did not break.
As the far end of the thread approached the loophole, he was conscious
of a slight metallic ring against the stone wall. His interest grew in
intensity. Phil and these unknown friends of his were sending him
something more than a note. He pulled with exceeding slowness and care
now, lest the metallic object hook against the far edge of the loophole.
But it came in safely, slid across the stone, and reached his hand. It
was a large iron key, with a small piece of paper tied around it. He
tore off the paper, and read, in a handwriting the same as that on the
first one:
"This is the key to your cell, No. 37, but do not use it. Do not even
put it in the lock until the fourth night from to-night. Then at
midnight, as nearly as you can judge, unlock and go out. Let out the
thread for the last time to-morrow night."
John looked at the key and glanced longingly at the lock. He had no
doubt that it would fit. But he obeyed orders and did not try it.
Instead he thrust it into the old ragged mattress of his cot. He
resumed his physical exercises the next day, giving an hour to them in
the morning and another hour in the afternoon. They helped, but the
breath of hope was doing more for him, both mind and body, than anything
else. He felt so strong and active that he did not chaff Diego any more
lest the Mexican, stolid and wooden though he was, might suspect
something.
He let out the thread according to orders, and, at the usual time, drew
in a dagger, slender and very light, but long and keen as a razor. He
read readily the purpose of this. There would be much danger when he
opened the door to go out, and he must have a weapon. He ran his finger
along the keen edge and saw that it would be truly formidable at close
quarters. Then he hid it in his mattress with the key, wound up the
thread, and put it in the same place. All had now come to pass as
promised, and he felt that the remainder would depend greatly upon
himself. So he settled down as best he could to three days and nights
of almost intolerable waiting. Dull and heavy as the time was, and
surely every second was a minute, many fears also came with it. They
might take it into their heads to change that ragged old mattress of
his, and then the knife, the thread, and the key would be found. He
would dismiss such apprehensions with the power of reason, but the power
of fear would bring them back again. Too much now depended upon his
freedom from examination and search to allow of a calm mind.
Yet time passed, no matter how slow, and he was helped greatly by his
physical exercises, which gave him occupation, besides preparing him for
an expected ordeal. Hope, too, was doing its great work. He could
fairly feel the strength flowing back into his veins, and his nerves
becoming tougher and more supple. Every night he looked out at the
mountain slope and itemized his little garden there that he had never
touched, shrub by shrub, stone by stone, not forgetting the great
cactus. He told himself that he did not expect to see any light there
again, because the unknown sender of messages had not spoken of another,
but, deep down at the bottom of his heart, he was hoping to behold the
torch once more, and he felt disappointment when it did not appear.
He tried to imagine how Phil looked. He knew that he must be a great,
strong boy, as big as a man. He knew that his spirit was bold and
enterprising, yet he must have had uncommon skill and fortune to have
penetrated so deep into Mexico, and to preserve a hiding-place so near
to the great Castle of Montevideo. And the friends with him must be
molded of the finest steel. Who were they? He recalled daring and
adventurous spirits among his own comrades in the fatal expedition, but
as he ran over every one in his mind he shook his head. It could not
be.
It is the truth that, during all this period, inflicting such a
tremendous strain upon the captive, John never once tried the key in the
door. It was the supreme test of his character, of his restraint, of
his power of will, and he passed it successfully. The thread, the
dagger, and the key lay together untouched in the bottom of the old
mattress, and he waited in all the outward seeming of patience.
The first night was very clear, on the second it rained for six or seven
hours. The entire mountainside was veiled in sheets of water or vapor,
and John saw nothing beyond his window but the black blur. The third
night was clear, but when the morning of the fourth day dawned, John
thought, from the clouds that were floating along the mountain slope, it
would be rainy again. He hoped that the promise would come true.
Darkness and rain favor an escaping prisoner.
The last day was the most terrible of all. Now and then he found his
heart pounding as if it would rack itself to pieces. It was difficult
to go through with the exercises, and it was still more difficult to
preserve calmness of manner in the presence of Diego. Yet he did both.
Moreover, his natural steadiness seemed to come back to him as the hour
drew near. His was one of those rare and fortunate natures which may be
nervous and apprehensive some time before the event, but which become
hard and firm when it is at hand. Now John found himself singularly
calm. The eternity of waiting had passed, and he was strong and ready.
Diego brought him his supper early, and then, through his loophole, he
watched the twilight deepen into the night. And with the night came the
rain that the morning and afternoon clouds had predicted. It was a cold
rain, driven by a wind that shrieked down the valley, and drops of it,
hurled like shot the full width of the slit, struck John in the face.
But he liked the cool sharp touch, and he felt sure that the rain would
continue all through the night. So much the better.
John's clothing was old and ragged, and he wore a pair of heelless
Mexican shoes. He had no hat or cap. But a prisoner of three lonely
years seeking to escape was not likely to think of such things.
He waited patiently through these last hours. He was compelled to judge
for himself when midnight had come, but he believed that he had made a
close calculation. Then he took a final look through the loophole. The
wind, with a mighty groaning and shrieking, was still driving the rain
down the slopes, and nothing was visible. Then, with a firm hand, he
took from the bed the thread, the knife, and the key. It was not likely
that he would have any further use for the thread, but for the sake of
precaution he put it in his pocket. He also slipped the dagger into the
back of his coat at the neck, after a southwestern fashion which allowed
a man to draw and strike with a single motion.
Then, key in hand, he boldly approached the door. Some throbbings of
doubt appeared, but he sternly repressed them. Giving himself no time
for hesitation, he put the key in the lock and turned his hand toward
the right. The key, without any creaking or scraping, turned with it.
His heart gave a great leap. He did not know until now that he had
really doubted. His joy at the fact showed it. But the miracles were
coming true, one after another.
He turned the key around the proper distance, and he heard the heavy
bolt slide back. He knew that he would have nothing to do now but pull
on the door, yet he paused a few moments as one lingers over a great
pleasure, in order to make it greater. He pulled, and the door came
back with the same familiar slight creak that he had heard it make so
often when Diego entered or left. With an involuntary gesture of one
hand, he bade farewell to his cell and stepped into the long, dark
corridor upon which the row of cells opened. But for the sake of
precaution he locked the cell door again and put the key in his pocket.
Then he drew the slender dagger, clutched it firmly in his right hand,
and stepped softly back against the wall, which was in heavy shadow, no
light entering it from the narrow barred window at either end. John's
heart beat painfully, but he did not believe that the miracles which
were being done in his behalf had yet ended. With his back still toward
the wall, and his hand on the hilt of the dagger, he slipped soundlessly
along for a few feet. His eyes, growing used to the darkness, made out
the posts at the head of a stairway.
Evidently this was the way he should go, and he paused again. Then his
blood slowly chilled within him. A human figure was standing beside one
of the posts. He saw it distinctly. It was the figure of a tall man in
a long black serape, with a dark handkerchief tied around mouth and chin
after the frequent Mexican fashion, and a great sombrero which nearly
met the handkerchief. He could see nothing but the narrowest strip of
dark face, and in the dusk the man rose to the size of a giant. He was
truly a formidable figure to one who had been three years a captive, to
one who was armed only with a slender knife.
But the crisis in John Bedford's life was so great that he advanced
straight toward the ominous presence in his path. The man said nothing,
but John felt as he approached that the stranger was regarding him
steadily. Moreover, he made no motion to draw a weapon. John saw now
that one of his hands rested on the post at the stairhead, and the other
hung straight down by his side. Surely this was not the attitude of a
foe! Perhaps here was merely another in the chain of miracles that had
begun to work in his behalf. He advanced a step or two nearer, and the
stranger was yet motionless. Another step, and the man spoke in a sharp
whisper:
"You are John Bedford?"
"I am," replied John.
"I've been waiting for you. Come. But first take this."
He drew a double-barreled pistol from his pocket and handed it to John,
who did as he was told. The stranger then produced from under his
capacious serape another serape and a Mexican hat, which John, acting
under his instructions, also put on.
"Now," said the man, "follow me, and do what I do or what I tell you.
"It is the midnight hour,
They wait us at the gate.
May Heaven its favors pour,
Then easy is our fate.
You seem to be a brave fellow like your brother; then now is the time to
show your courage, and remember, also, that I can do all the talking for
both of us. Talking is my great specialty."
It seemed to John that the stranger spoke in an odd manner, but he liked
the sound of his voice, which was at once strong and kind. Why should
he not like a man who had come through every imaginable danger to save
him from a living death!
"My brother?" whispered John in his eagerness. "Is he still near?"
"I told you I was to do all the talking," replied the man. "You just
follow and step as lightly as you can."
John obeyed, and, after a descent of a few steps, they came to one of
the heavy wooden doors, twelve feet high, but the stranger unlocked it
with a key taken from the folds of that invaluable Mexican garment, the
serape.
"You didn't think I'd come on such a trip as this without making full
preparations?" said the man with a slight humorous inflection. Then he
added: "You're just a plain, common Mexican, some servant or other,
employed about the castle, and you continue to slouch along behind me,
who may be an officer for all one knows in this darkness. But first
push with me on this door. Push hard and push slowly."
The heavy door moved back a foot or two, but that was all the stranger
wanted. He slipped through the opening, and John came after him. Then
the man closed and locked the door again.
"A wise burglar leaves no trail behind him," he said, "and, although it
is too dark for me to see you very well, I want to tell you, Sir John of
the Cell, that your figure and walk remind me a great deal of your
brother, Sir Philip of the Mountain, the River, and the Plain, as
gallant a lad as one may meet in many a long day."
A question, a half dozen of them leaped to John's lips, but, remembering
his orders, he checked them all there.
"Ah, I see," said the stranger. "That would certainly tempt any man to
ask questions, but, remembering what I told you, you did not ask them.
You are of the true metal.
"Though in prison he lay,
His spirit was strong,
He sought a better day,
And now it's come along.
At least it's a better night, which, for the uses of poetry, is the same
as day. This stairway, John, leads into the great inner court, and then
our troubles begin, although we ought to return thanks all the rest of
our days for the rain and the heavy darkness. The Mexican officers will
see no reason why they shouldn't remain under shelter, and the Mexican
soldiers, in this case, will be glad enough to do as their officers do."
John now followed his guide with absolute faith. The man spoke more
queerly than anybody else that he had ever heard, but everything that he
did or said inspired confidence.
They came to the bottom of the stairway and reached the great paved
central court, with the buildings of the officers scattered here and
there. They stepped into the court, and John fairly shrank within
himself when the cold rain lashed into his face. He did not know until
then how three years within massive walls had softened and weakened him.
But he held himself erect and tautened his nerves, resolved that his
comrade should not see that he had shivered.
They saw lights shining from the windows of some of the low buildings,
but no human being was visible within the square.
"They've all sought cover," said his rescuer, "and now is our best
chance to get through one of the gates. After that there are other walls
and ditches to be passed, but, Sir John of the Night, the Wall, the
Rain, and the Moat, we'll pass them. This little plan of ours has been
too well laid to go astray. Just the same, you keep that pistol handy."
John drew the serape about his thin body. It was useful for other
things than disguise. Without it the cold would have struck him to the
bone. His rescuer led the way across the court until they came to one
of the great gates in the wall. The sentinel then was pacing back and
forth, his musket on his shoulder, and at intervals he called:
"Sentinela alerte!" that his comrades at other gates might hear, and out
of the wind and rain came at intervals, though faintly, the responding
cry, "Sentinela alerte!" John and the stranger were almost upon this
man when the cry "Sentinela alerte!" came from the next gate. He turned
quickly as the two dark figures emerged from the darker gloom, but the
stranger, with extraordinary dexterity, threw his serape over his face,
checking any cry, while his powerful hands choked him into
insensibility. At the same time the stranger uttered the answering cry,
"Sentinela alerte!"
"You haven't killed him?" exclaimed John, aghast, as his rescuer let the
Mexican slide to the wet earth.
"Not at all," replied this resourceful man. "The cold rain will bring
him back to his senses in five minutes and in ten minutes he will be as
well as ever, but in ten minutes we should play our hand, if we ever
play it."
He drew an enormous key from the pocket of the Mexican, unlocked the
gate, and, after they had passed out, locked it behind them. Then they
stood on the edge of the great moat, two hundred feet wide, twenty feet
deep and bank full. The man dropped the key into the water.
"Now, Sir John of the Escape," he said, "the drawbridge is up, and if it
were down it would be too well guarded for us to pass. We must swim. I
don't know how strong you are after a long life in prison, but swim you
must. Life is dear, and I think you'll swim. We'll take off most of
our clothes and tie them with our weapons on our heads. What a wild
night! But how good it is for us!"
Crouching in the shadow of the wall they took off most of their clothes,
and then each tied them in a package containing his weapons, also, on
his head. They were secured with strips torn from John's rags.
Meanwhile, the night was increasing in wildness. John would have viewed
it with awe, had not his escape absorbed every thought. The wind
groaned through the gorges of the great Sierra, and the cold rain lashed
like a whip. The rumblings of thunder came from far and deep valleys
between the ridges.
"Now," said the man, "we'll drop into the moat together. But let
yourself down by your hands as gently as you can, and make no splash
when you strike. Now, over we go!"
The two dropped into the water, taking care not to go under, and then
began to swim toward the far edge of the moat. John had been a good
swimmer, but the water was very cold to his thin body. Nevertheless, he
swam with a fairly steady stroke, until they were about half-way across,
when he felt cramps creeping over him. But the stranger, who kept close
by his side, had been watching, and he put one hand under John's body.
In water the light support became a strong one, and now John swam
easily.
They reached the far edge and climbed up on the wall. Here John lay a
little while, gasping, while the stranger, who now seemed a very god to
him, rubbed his cold body to bring back the warmth. From a point down
the bank came the cry "Sentinela alerte!" and from a point in the other
direction came the answering cry, "Sentinela alerte!"
"Lie flat," whispered his rescuer to John, "and we'll wriggle across
fifty feet of ground here until we come to a wooden wall. We're lost if
we stand up, because I think lightning is coming with that thunder."
He spoke with knowledge, as the thunder suddenly grew louder and the air
around them was tinted with phosphorescent light. It was not a flare of
lightning, merely its distant reflection, but it was enough to have
disclosed them, if they had been standing, to any one ten paces distant.
The danger itself gave them new strength, and they quickly crossed the
ground to the _chevaux de frise_, where they crouched against the tall
cedar posts. They lay almost flat upon the ground, and they were very
glad of the shelter, because the lightning was coming nearer. Now, when
the lightning flashed along the mountain slopes, they saw not far away
the dim figure of a soldier, and they heard distinctly his cry:
"Sentinela alerte!"
"Wait until he goes back," whispered the stranger. "Then we must climb
the wall and climb it quickly. It's fastened with cross timbers which
will give us hold for both hand and foot."
The lightning tinted the sky once more with its phosphorescent gleam,
and they did not see the soldier.
"Now for it!" said the man in a sharp, commanding whisper. "Up with you
and over the wall!"
John seized the crosspiece, and in another instant was on the top of a
wall of cedar posts twelve feet high. He did not know until afterward
that the strong hand of his rescuer had helped him up. In another
instant the man was beside him, and then the lightning flared brightly,
showing vividly the huge castle, the stone ramparts, the moats and the
two figures, naked to the waist, sitting on top of the cedar wall.
"Sentinela alerte!" was shouted far louder than usual, and "Sentinela
alerte!" came the reply in the same tone. Two musket shots were fired,
and the two figures, one with a red stain on his side, sprang outward
from the cedar fence into the second and smaller moat, which was only
fourteen feet wide, although its outer wall was an earthwork rising very
high above the water. Two or three strong strokes carried them across,
and with desperate efforts they climbed up the high bank. They heard
shouts, and they knew that when the lightning flared again more shots
would be fired at them. It was then that John noticed the red stain on
the side of his comrade, and all the reserves of mental strength that
made him so much like his brother, Philip, came to his aid. He snatched
the package from his head, tore it apart, threw the serape around his
body and stood up, erect and defiant, pistol in hand. He would do
something for this man who had done so much for him.
The lightning flared again, a long quivering stroke, and the heads of
half a dozen men appeared at the crest of the _chevaux de frise_, not
twenty feet away. But John Bedford looked at only one of them. He saw
the swarthy, angry face of de Armijo. He seemed to be beckoning with
his sword to his men, but a flash like that of the lightning seared
John's whole brain. He remembered how this man had struck him down,
when he was chained and helpless, and he fired point blank at the angry
face. De Armijo fell back with a terrible cry. He was not dead, but the
bullet had plowed full length across his cheek, and he would bear there
a terrible red weal all the rest of his life.
The lightning passed, and they were in complete darkness, but John felt
a hand on his arm.
"Come," whispered his rescuer. "You did that well. Prison hasn't taken
any of the manhood from you. We're outside everything now, and the
others are waiting for us."
They fled away together in the darkness.