"THE BLADE FELL TRUE ON THE SOLDIER'S HEAD, DROPPING HIM LIKE A STONE"
"He has recovered. None but one of these dogs could have withstood such a fall," said some one in authority, striding towards Roger and surveying him. "Then we will march and get to safer quarters. Tie the rascal to your stirrup-leather, Juan, and let us be moving. To horse, mount, and away!"
Some fifty troopers obeyed the order. They swung themselves into their saddles, while one of their number hastened to pass a noose round Roger's hands, and attach it to his saddle. Then there was a sharp order, and the cavalcade went at a trot down the pass, clattering their way over the stones and broken ground, and bearing their captive to the camp where dwelt Fernando Cortes. It was a terrible misfortune, and a sad and sudden ending to our hero's rising fortunes.