by.  But manifestly that was not the cause of his hesitation, for his face became convulsed and an expression of blank and utter astonishment was stamped upon it.  The men stared fixedly at each other, O’Reilly with his head thrown back, Cobo with his body propped rigidly upon wooden arms and that peculiar shocked inquiry in his glaring eyes.  But slowly this expression changed; the colonel bent as if beneath a great weight, his head rose and turned back upon his neck, he filled his lungs with another wheezing sigh.  “Christ!  O Christ—­” he whispered.

His teeth ground together, his head began to wag upon his shoulders; it dropped lower and lower; one hand slipped from its hold and he lurched forward.  An instant he hung suspended from the waist; then he appeared to let go limply as all resistance went out of his big body.  There came a warning rattle of dirt and mortar and pebbles; the next instant he slipped into the well and plunged headlong down upon O’Reilly, an avalanche of lifeless flesh.

Johnnie shielded himself with his up-flung arms, but he was driven to his knees, and when he scrambled to his feet, half stunned, it was to find himself in utter darkness.  There was a heavy weight against his legs.  With a strength born of horror and revulsion he freed himself; then hearing no sound and feeling no movement, he fumbled for the candle and with clumsy fingers managed to relight it.  Even after the flame had leaped out and he saw what shared the pit with him he could barely credit his senses.  The nature of his deliverance was uncanny, supernatural—­it left him dazed.  He had beheld death stamped upon Cobo’s writhing face even while the fellow braced himself to keep from falling, but what force had effected the phenomenon, what unseen hand had stricken him, Johnnie was at a loss to comprehend.  It seemed a miracle, indeed, until he looked closer.  Then he understood.  Cobo lay in a formless, boneless heap; he seemed to be all arms and legs; his face was hidden, but between his shoulders there protruded the crude wooden handle of a home-made knife to which a loop of cord was tied.

O’Reilly stared stupidly at the weapon; then he raised his eyes.  Peering down at him out of the night was another face, an impertinent, beardless, youthful face.

He uttered Jacket’s name, and the boy answered with a smile.  “Bring my knife with you when you come,” the latter directed.

“You!” The American’s voice was weak and shaky.  “I thought—­” He set the candle down and covered his eyes momentarily.

“That’s a good knife, all right, and sharp, too.  The fellow died in a hurry, eh?  Who does he happen to be?”

“Don’t you know?  It—­it’s Cobo.”

“Cobo!  Coby, the baby-killer!” Jacket breathed an oath.  “Oh, that blessed knife!” The boy craned his small body forward until he was in danger of following his victim.  “Now this is good luck indeed!  And to think that he died just like any other man.”