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 long, low cuartel occupied by the soldiers, and, behind that, gleaming in the moonlight, a stretch of high adobe wall. He had seen men stood with their faces to that wall and shot dead.

Again he addressed the extravagant figure at the helm.

“It is true,” he said, “that I am fleeing the country. But, receive the assurance that I care very little for that. Courts and camps everywhere are open to Sabas Placido. Vaya! what is this molehill of a republic—this pig’s head of a country—to a man like me? I am a paisano of everywhere. In Rome, in London, in Paris, in Vienna, you will hear them say: ‘Welcome back, Don Sabas.’ Come!—tonto—baboon of a boy—admiral, whatever you call yourself, turn your boat. Put us on board the Salvador, and here is your pay—five hundred pesos in money of the Estados Unidos—more than your lying government will pay you in twenty years.”

Don Sabas pressed a plump purse against the youth’s hand. The admiral gave no heed to the words or the movement. Braced against the helm, he was holding the sloop dead on her shoreward