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 soldier at its mouth," Felipe whispered. "It's a good thing for us we came this way."

Somewhere within those walls the condemned prisoner waited with sad eyes for the dawn. Perhaps she had believed for an hour of mocking hope, that he whom she had given the benediction of her lips only a broken day past, would come in all the bravery of her faith, the strength of her belief, and take her from the peril that was drawing upon her to engulf her young life.

Whoever slept under that roof of dull-red tiles, it would not be Helena Sprague. In the morning—only a little while now till the break of day—they would bring her out, wan and steady, her eyes open wide in the hunger of life, in the straining to gather and store against the cold bleakness of the grave some little more of the allotment so brutally denied. Perhaps they might look, lighted for a moment with hope, for the face of a friend.

There would be no pity in Roberto now. What his dagger had failed of in the night, the soldiers' bullets would accomplish that coming dawn. No doubt the mean-hearted victor in this pitiful contest of honor, jealousy and cupidity lay sleeping now, refreshing himself to rise soon to the full enjoyment of his triumph.

There was a dim light in what Henderson knew must be the quarters of the officer of the guard, it being a window without bars. Close by was a door, set deep in the thick wall, a broad, high and ponderous thing like a gate in a city wall, before which a