The driver reins up his steed for further directions.
“To La Quinta de Quesada,” orders Ashley, and they rattle on.
Suddenly rings out the command, “Alto!” and the volante stops with a suddenness that nearly unseats its passenger, directly in front of El Calabozo de Infierno, the local carcel.
“What in the devil’s name—” begins Ashley, but he is seized and dragged roughly from the volante, a pistol clapped to his head and the command hissed in his ear: “Callese!”
Lights appear about the entrance of the carcel, and as Ashley is hustled toward the gloom beyond he sees, standing near the passageway and watching the strange proceedings with a troubled face, the aged priest whom he noted at La Quinta de Quesada a few days before.
Ashley is hurried through the patio and along the ill-smelling corridor beyond to an open cell. Into this he is pushed and his ungentle captor tells him:
“En la manana muere V. sobre el garrote!”
“Thank you,” says Ashley. His stock of Spanish is just sufficient to enable him to comprehend the nature of the cheerful intelligence, which is to the effect that he is to die by the iron collar to-morrow.
“Will you leave the light?” he requests.
The smoky lantern is set upon the floor. Then the door clangs to, there is a rattle of chains and the echo of departing footsteps and he is alone.