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 man, burst from his prison as if he had grown strong in the purpose he had vowed to Don Abrahan only yesterday. Not only the blood of John Toberman, but the wrong of his own oppression, stood in this man's memory to be avenged. It seemed a miracle that had delivered him and sent him there as Roberto stood in the posture of a man who lifts his hands in supplication for his life, one grasping the forelock of the horse, the other lifting the dagger to blind its defiant eyes.

"Keep your hands where they are!" Henderson commanded him.

Roberto, seeming to obey, dropped the dagger, his calculative eye measuring his chance of drawing a pistol. Henderson was advancing, closing on him rapidly. Roberto was not a coward, neither a fool. He realized that Henderson's situation would not admit temporizing or empty bluster. When a man in that desperate pass stepped out with a pistol in his hand, he came in the determination to kill if necessary. Roberto's fingers twitched as he set them to reach for a weapon, but reason held them as they were.

"Permit me," said Henderson, his pistol against Roberto's breast as he took from his sash the modern Yankee pistol nearest to hand. He took the mate of it also, keeping it in his hand, kicked the dagger far out of Roberto's reach, while Don Felipe and all of them stood by with hearts fairly bursting to see the valor of this Yankee sailor with the laughter and soul of youth and friendship in