Quarter of an hour later we had coaxed up quite a respectable fire in the shadow of a rock at the entrance to the cave, which was just high enough to allow us to stand upright, and was perhaps twelve feet in diameter. We piled more wood on the blaze, satisfied that in its damp condition we could not set fire to the forest, and then retired to dry our clothing and enjoy a portion of the contents of the provision bag Alano had improvised out of the purloined napkin.
As we ate we discussed the situation, wondering how far we could be from some village and if there were any insurgents or Spanish soldiers in the vicinity.
“The rebels could outwit the soldiers forever in these hills,” remarked Alano—“especially those who are acquainted in the vicinity.”
“But the rebels might be surrounded,” I suggested.
“They said at Santiago they had too strong a picket guard for that, Mark.”
“But we have seen no picket guard. Supposing instead of two boys a body of Spanish soldiers had come this way, what then?”
“In that case what would the Spanish soldiers have to shoot at?” he laughed. “We have as yet seen no rebels.”
“But we may meet them—before we know it,” I said, with a shake of my head.
Scarcely had I uttered the words than the entrance to our resting-place was darkened by two burly forms, and we found the muzzles of two carbines thrust close to our faces.