moment his face was eloquent with such distress and misery that the heart of the young man, who was at peace with all the world, went instantly out to him.  The Spaniard was less sympathetic.  When he saw the khaki suit and the campaign hat he scowled, and ungraciously would have closed the door.  Chesterton, apologizing, pushed it open.  His pony, he explained, had gone lame, and he must have another, and at once.  The landlord shrugged his shoulders.  These were war times, he said, and the American officer could take what he liked.  They in Caguan were non-combatants and could not protest.  Chesterton hastened to reassure him.  The war, he announced, was over, and were it not, he was no officer to issue requisitions.  He intended to pay for the pony.  He unbuckled his belt and poured upon the table a handful of Spanish doubloons.  The landlord lowered the candle and silently counted the gold pieces, and then calling to him two of his fellow-villagers, crossed the tiny plaza and entered the corral.

“The American pig,” he whispered, “wishes to buy a pony.  He tells me the war is over; that Spain has surrendered.  We know that must be a lie.  It is more probable he is a deserter.  He claims he is a civilian, but that also is a lie, for he is in uniform.  You, Paul, sell him your pony, and then wait for him at the first turn in the trail, and take it from him.”

“He is armed,” protested the one called Paul.

“You must not give him time to draw his revolver,” ordered the landlord.  “You and Pedro will shoot him from the shadow.  He is our country’s enemy, and it will be in a good cause.  And he may carry despatches.  If we take them the commandante at Mayaguez he will reward us.”

“And the gold pieces?” demanded the one called Paul.

“We will divide them in three parts,” said the landlord.

In the front of the inn, surrounded by a ghost-like group that spoke its suspicions, Chesterton was lifting his saddle from El Capitan and rubbing the lame foreleg.  It was not a serious sprain.  A week would set it right, but for that night the pony was useless.  Impatiently, Chesterton called across the plaza, begging the landlord to make haste.  He was eager to be gone, alarmed and fearful lest even this slight delay should cause him to miss the transport.  The thought was intolerable.  But he was also acutely conscious that he was very hungry, and he was too old a campaigner to scoff at hunger.  With the hope that he could find something to carry with him and eat as he rode forward, he entered the inn.

The main room of the house was now in darkness, but a smaller room adjoining it was lit by candles, and by a tiny taper floating before a crucifix.  In the light of the candles Chesterton made out a bed, a priest bending over it, a woman kneeling beside it, and upon the bed the little figure of a boy who tossed and moaned.  As Chesterton halted and waited hesitating, the priest strode past him, and in a voice dull and flat with grief and weariness, ordered those at the door to bring the landlord quickly.  As one of the group leaped toward the corral, the priest said to the others:  “There is another attack.  I have lost hope.”