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568 without. Meanwhile the intruder was struggling to enter, evidently pushed up by unseen hands below, and awkwardly scrambling over the window-sill. To have sprung up, and hurled him backwards, would have been the work of a moment; but, strange as it may seem to you, Tom, I never thought of it till the fellow was fairly in the room, and on his feet. Then I rose to my hands and knees, resolved not to perish without a fight for life, when two circumstances checked me.

One was, that the persons without, whoever they were, withdrew with cautious but quite audible steps, instead of following their accomplice. The other was, that the invader, instead of assailing me, reeled up to the bed with a tipsy hiccough, flung off his upper garments, which he pitched into a corner, and, rolling into the bed, drew the coverings over him, and was soon breathing heavily in the deep but disturbed sleep of intoxication. I drew my own breath more freely. The intruder was no assassin then, but some drunken fellow who had mistaken the room, while I had wrongfully suspected the landlord. What was now to be done? Should I lie still, and share my chamber with this usurping Trinculo; or should I call up Señor Mendez, and have the man turned out? While I hesitated on this point, my doubts were cut short in a way I little looked for.

I heard a footfall, not outside, this time; but in the little antechamber. Then a board creaked, and a curse, low and deep, in the Spanish language, followed. Another step, and another, the dull, stealthy tread of bare feet, and I saw a ray of yellow light shine under the ill-fitting door. In the next instant the latch was slowly lifted, and the door opened so as to admit a broad band of light, across which could be plainly seen the shadow of a man’s hand, the outspread fingers of which tried to shade the glare.

“Asleep! of course he is—the heretic cur!” muttered a guttural voice, thick and fierce.

“Cautious, Diego! gently, my son. Put the lamp down in the room, behind us. We shall see well enough;” hissed out Señor Mendez, in a tone very unlike the oily accents of his usual utterance.

“He is but one. He is unarmed;” growled the sulky mulatto; “but I’ll set down the lamp if you are afraid, padron.”

Then I heard the lamp set gently down. It gave little light in the chamber, but I lay at the farther end, and my eyes were used to the darkness. I clearly saw the projecting shadows of two men. Who they were, I easily guessed, nor could I doubt their errand. My heart almost stopped, and a shiver ran through me, while my forehead was cold and clammy. I don’t think it was entirely fear that I felt, but horror, disgust—to die thus, butchered like a sheep, in a mean way-side inn, without hope of effectual resistance. Yet I braced my nerves for a hard contest, and resolved to sell my life dearly. In they came.

The landlord, and Diego, the coloured man. The latter had bared his muscular arms, dark as bronze, to the shoulder, and carried in his hand a long knife that glittered like silver, as a chance ray from the lamp fell upon it. The innkeeper was aimed with a heavy machete, one of those short swords of which the Mexicans are so fond. He looked pale, almost livid, but resolute, while the mulatto’s pointed teeth were displayed in a sort of grinning smile, like those of a snarling dog. Both were barefoot.

I crouched on the maize husks, ready for the worst. Mendez was the least robust of the villains, and him I might perhaps hope to overpower and disarm, though the chance seemed desperate, and I knew not how many confederates might be within call.

“Strike!” said the landlord, hoarsely.

Quick and stealthy as a panther, the mulatto bounded forward, not to where I lay, but to the bedside, and plunged his cruel knife through the coverings, which were instantly reddened with blood. Again, again, again, I saw the flash of the knife in the air, and heard the dull sound of its stroke, as it pierced the body of the victim, who had wakened, and, with a gurgling cry, seemed to attempt to rise. But so quickly was all this done, that I had not recovered from my surprise, before the treacherous landlord hurried up to help his black ally, and plunged his sword into the yet breathing body of the sufferer. I heard a deep groan, and a smothered sob, and all was still. The foul deed was done, and interference useless, worse than useless, for I could not doubt that the poor drunkard had been murdered by mistake, and that the ruffians believed the corpse before them to be mine.

“Vaya usted á los infiernos!” growled Diego, panting for breath.

“Are you sure?” asked Mendez, falteringly.

“Quite. The spine is limp, and the heart beats no more. The islander will never complain of his broken sleep, master. Here are his bags, purse, and pocket-book, under the bolster, just as I saw them placed when I peeped through the chink.”

Without another word, both murderers withdrew. I heard their receding steps: I saw the lamp shed its last ray into the room. My blood was icy cold in my veins. I had been mercifully preserved from a great peril, but at what a cost! Who was he that had died in my place? That I could not guess. But the thought occurred to me that the villains would doubtless return to fetch the body for burial, and the discovery, and a new crime, were certain. I would not await their return. Hastily I rose, put on my coat and boots, crossed the room on tip-toe, avoiding the gory bed and its ghastly tenant, and lowered myself out of the window to the full stretch of my arms, then dropped. The shock benumbed me for a moment, but I was unhurt. I found myself in a garden path, and there was light enough for me to find my way to a gate, to emerge into the high road, and to hurry towards the silent city of Xalapa.

I see by the clock that time is getting short, so I will not dwell upon my feelings, or the turmoil which arose when I made my way to the alcalde’s house, guided by a lantern-bearing watchman, whom I happened to meet, and aroused the magistrate from his slumbers. It so happened that the country was then under martial law, and that the