Given tempered tools to work with, it would have been no great undertaking to tear down that cemented wall of stones, but, armed with nothing except his bare hands and that soft iron bar, O’Reilly spent nearly the whole night at his task.  Long before the last rock had yielded, however, he beheld that which caused him to turn a strained face upward to Rosa.

“There’s a little door, as sure as you live,” he told her.

The girl was beside herself with excitement.  “Yes?  What else?  What more do you see?”

“Nothing.  It appears to be made of solid timbers, and has two huge hand-wrought locks.”

“Locks!  Then we have found it.”  Rosa closed her eyes; she swayed momentarily.  “Esteban was right.  Locks, indeed!  That means something to hide.  Oh, if I could only help you.”

“God!  If I only had something—­anything to work with!” muttered the American as he fell to with redoubled energy.  He no longer tried to conserve his strength, for the treasure-seeker’s lust beset him.  Rosa looked on, wringing her hands and urging him to greater haste.

But the low, thick door was built of some hard, native wood:  it was wet and tough and slippery.  O’Reilly’s blows made no impression upon it, nor upon the heavy hasps and staples with which it was secured in place.  The latter were deeply rusted, to be sure, but they withstood his efforts, and he was finally forced to rest, baffled, enraged, half hysterical from weakness and fatigue.

Daylight was at hand once more, but he refused to give up, and worked on stubbornly, furiously, until Rosa, in an agony, besought him to desist.

Johnnie again collapsed on the grass and lay panting while the other two replaced the planks.

“Another hour and I’d have been into it,” he declared, huskily.

“You will skill yourself,” Jacket told him.

Rosa bent over him with shining eyes and parted lips.  “Yes,” said she.  “Be patient.  We will come back, O’Reilly, and to-night we shall be rich.”

Colonel Cobo lit a black cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and exhaled two fierce jets of smoke through his nostrils.  For a full moment he scowled forbiddingly at the sergeant who had asked to see him.

“What’s this you are telling me?” he inquired, finally.

The sergeant, a mean-faced, low-browed man, stirred uneasily.

“It is God’s truth.  There are spirits on La Cumbre, and I wish to see the priest about it.”

“Spirits?  What kind of spirits?”

The fellow shrugged.  “Evil spirits—­spirits from hell.  The men are buying charms.”

“Bah!  I took you to be a sensible person.”

“You don’t believe me?  Well, I didn’t believe them, when they told me about it.  But I saw with my own eyes.”

Cobo leaned forward, mildly astonished.  Of all his villainous troop, this man was the last one he had credited with imagination of this sort.  “What did you see?”