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 horses? Had the brigands already killed some one?"

"No, I believe it was only the blood of some animal. They often sprinkle the road with it in order to terrorize the horses and assist in capturing the travellers. But now you must go to sleep."

I was young; I had ridden many long hours; and fleas or no fleas, brigands or no brigands, I fell asleep.

The strong smell of coffee wakened me in the morning. My brother already held a cup of it.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"I must have—but look at my hands!" They were dotted with red bites.

The cave had lost something of its romantic appearance of the night. There were only three brigands in the room, and they were busy preparing food. One of them got a towel, or what served for one, put a few drops of water on the end of it—water seemed to be very scarce with them—and brought it to me to wash my face and hands. He was a very kind young brigand. He brought me some food, and a cup of the strongest coffee I ever tasted.

He watched me eat as if he had been my nurse, and when I was finished, asked a trifle sheepishly:

"How did you learn so much poetry?"

"Out of books," I replied.

"Then you can write, too?"