Luiz led the way and the two followed gladly.  The air was crisper and fresher than usual, and to both of them it felt divine.  They inhaled deep breaths, and thought that the world had never looked so beautiful.  What a golden sunrise!  What a blue sky!  What magnificent green woods off there under the horizon!  They felt strength and courage rushing back in a flood.

“Which way now, Mr. Spaniard?” said Long Jim.  “Has your captain repented, an’ does he want to give us the finest rooms in his house?  I can’t say that we liked the tavern he made us stop at last night.”

Luiz shook his head, either to signify that he did not understand or that there was no reply, and led the way down a narrow path shut in on either side with magnolias and cypresses.  The little group of soldiers enclosed Paul and Long Jim, but all their glances were for the boy, none for the man.

The enclosed path led on for two or three hundred yards.  Paul now and then caught glimpses through the trees of the chateau or a passing face, and he heard a low murmur that seemed to be the hum of many voices.

The path ended presently at a gate in a high board wall, and both gate and wall were thick and strong Here a Spaniard dressed like a minor officer was waiting, and began to unlock the gate.

“Now what under the sun can they be about?” asked Long Jim, to whom all this seemed very strange.  “Are they goin’ to tie us up in a pen?”

The heavy gate was unlocked and swung open a foot or so.  Two soldiers suddenly seized Long Jim and pulled him back, while another thrust Paul into the open space.  The officer put in his hand a sword—­the very one with which he had wounded Alvarez, Paul’s fingers closing mechanically over the hilt.  Then they shoved Paul inside, and quickly closed and locked the gate behind him.  But the last look that Luiz had bent upon the boy was one of pity and sympathy.

Paul staggered with the force of the push that the men had given him, and for a moment or two he was dazed, but eye and brain alike cleared as a great shout arose.  Then he beheld an extraordinary scene.

The boy stood within a ring fence enclosing a circular space perhaps thirty yards across, free from grass, and trodden hard.  The fence was of boards only about half way around, the rest of it being made of strong parallel bars about two feet apart and fastened to posts.  At the far side a rude log stable seemed to open into it.  The place might have been intended as a breaking ground for horses but Paul did not have time to think.

Facing him just outside the fence and sitting on a hastily constructed wooden seat was Francisco Alvarez, still in his finest uniform.  Beside him was Braxton Wyatt, also in a Spanish uniform, and all about them on either side, wherever the fence was made of parallel bars and open to see, clustered the mob, soldiers, laborers, servants, white faces, black faces, yellow faces, brown faces, straight hair, curly hair, and kinky hair, French, Spaniards, Portuguese, Indians, negroes, and many mixtures, every one eager and tense, and every eye bent upon Paul who stood, back to the gate, holding the sword in his hand, but unconscious that he held it.