With a rush our craft shot in between a lot of sea grass and stuck her bow into the soft mud. Dropping our oars, we sprang to the bow and took long leaps to solid ground. We had hardly righted ourselves when there came a call out of the darkness.
“Quien va?” And thus challenging us, a Spanish soldier who was on guard along the water’s edge rushed up to intercept our progress. His bayonet was within a foot of my breast, when Alano jumped under and hurled him to the ground.
“Come!” he cried to me. “Come, ere it is too late!” and away we went, doing the best sprinting we had ever done in our lives. Over a marsh and through a thorny field we dashed, and then struck a narrow path leading directly into a woods. The guard yelled after us and fired his gun, but that was the last we saw or heard of him.
“AN ALARM RANG OUT, A SOUND WHICH FILLED US BOTH WITH FEAR.”
Fearful, however, of pursuit, we did not slacken our pace until compelled to; and then, coming to a thick clump of grass at the foot of a half-decayed banana tree, we sank down completely out of breath. I had never taken such fearful chances on my life before, and I trusted I would never have to do so again, little dreaming of all the perils which still lay before us.
“I believe we are safe for the present,” said Alano, when he could get his breath. “I wonder where we are?”
“We’re in a very dark, dirty, and wet woods,” I returned gloomily. “Have we got to remain here all night?”
“It’s better than being in a Spanish prison,” replied my Cuban chum simply. “We can go on after we are a bit rested.”