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me, señor. Tell her… tell her—” he looked about him with his ghastly hollow eyes—“tell her that her old father is… well, and kindly treated on… on account of his age.”

Just then the bull-fighter leaned past the American.

“You say this girl is in Canalejos, señor?” he broke in.

“Sí, señor.”

“Then the Holy Virgin has directed you to the right person, señor. I am Lubito, the bull-fighter, a man of heart.” He touched his athletic chest. “I will find your little Madruja, señor, and care for her as if she were my own.”

The convict reached out a shaking claw.

“''Gracias á Madre in cielo! Gracias á San Pedro! Gracias á la Vírgen Inmaculada!''” Somehow a tear had managed to form in the wretch's dried and sunken eye.

“You give her to me, señor?”

“''O sí, si! un millón gracias!''”

“You hear that, Señor Strawbridge: the poor little bride Madruja, in Canalejos, is now under my protection.”

The drummer felt a qualm, but said nothing, because, after all, nothing was likely to come from so shadowy a trust. The red-garbed skeleton tried to give more thanks.

“Come, come, don't oppress me with your gratitude, viejo. It is nothing for me. I am all heart. Step away from in front of the car so we may start at once. Vamose, señors! Let us fly to Canalejos!”

Gumersindo let in his clutch, there was a shriek of cogs, and the motor plowed through the sand. The bull-fighter turned and waved good-by to the guard and smiled gaily at the ancient prisoner. The motor crossed the head of the dry canal, and the party looked down into its cavernous depths. As the great work dropped into the distance behind them, the dull-red convicts and their awful faces followed