“That was more of my hot-headedness. I was sketching a picture of the town and this fort or prison, when a Spanish officer came up and tried to snatch the drawing from my hand. Instead of demanding an explanation I promptly knocked him down. Then a couple of guards ran for me, and I dusted. But it was no use. They sent a company of soldiers after me, and here I am.”
“And here we are both likely to remain for some time to come,” I added bitterly.
“Looks that way, that’s a fact. By the way, you said something about your father, didn’t you?”
"Yes. My father is a prisoner of the Spaniards, and I felt almost certain he was in this fort."
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Richard Carter. My name is Mark.”
“And my name is Gilbert Burnham. I’ve heard of your father, come to think of it. He joined the Cuban army along with a plantation owner named Guerez and another American named Hawley.”
“You are right. Did you hear anything at all of him here in Cubineta or the vicinity?”
“No. But then, you see, that is not strange, as I talk very little Spanish. I certainly haven’t seen any Americans here but you and myself.”
Gilbert Burnham asked me to tell him my story; and, feeling that I could lose nothing by so doing, I favored him with a recital of my efforts to get to my father. He was quite interested.