CHAPTER IV.
AT THE PREFATURA.
Hal marched through the main entrance to the Prefatura.
His bearing was as proud as ever.
He could not have shown more fortitude had he felt that the whole honor of Old Glory was resting on his youthful shoulders.
He had marched for more than two miles through the streets, his military escort taking a roundabout course, as if they enjoyed displaying this dangerous captive to the excited populace.
He had been jeered at, jibed at, made the butt of hundreds of coarse jokes.
At last he had reached the Prefatura. Senor Vasquez still brought up the rear. He carried himself with the air of one who wishes it understood that he has done his duty by his country.
In the corridor of the Prefatura Hal’s escort halted until it could be learned before which official the prisoner was to be taken.
In the same corridor were other prisoners, each under guard.
There was only this difference: Hal Maynard was erect, rosy, healthy-looking. The other poor wretches, most of whom were women, were plainly Cubans.