The old man spoke so confidently that we followed him inside at once. Pushing aside a rude table which stood over a rush matting, he caught hold of a portion of the flooring. A strong pull, and up came a trapdoor, revealing a hole of inky darkness beneath.
“Into that, all of you!” he cried; and down we went, to find ourselves in a rude cellar about ten feet square and six feet deep. As soon as the last of us was down, Murillo replaced the trapdoor, matting, and table, and we heard him throw off some of his clothing and leap into one of the hammocks.
We had been left in total darkness, and now stood perfectly still and listened intently. Not more than three minutes passed, when we heard the tramping of horses' hoofs on the rocky road. The house reached, the animals came to a halt, and several soldiers dismounted. A rough voice yelled out in Spanish:
“Hullo, in there! Who lives here?”
“I do,” replied Murillo, with a start and a yawn, as though he had just awakened from a long sleep.
“Have you seen anything of four strangers around here?”
“No, capitan.”
There was a pause, and the leader of the soldiers came tramping inside.
“You are sure you are telling me the truth?”