“Who are you?” came in Spanish. “Put up your hands!”
“Don’t shoot!” cried Alano in alarm.
“Come out of that!”
“It’s raining too hard, and we have our coats off, as you see. Won’t you come in?”
At this the two men, bronzed and by no means bad-looking fellows, laughed. “Only boys!” murmured one, and the carbines were lowered and they entered the cave.
A long and rapid conversation with Alano, which I could but imperfectly understand, followed. They asked who we were, where we were going, how we had managed to slip out of Santiago, if we were armed, if we carried messages, if we had the countersign, how we had reached the cave, and a dozen other questions. Both roared loudly when Alano said he thought they were rebels.
“And so we are,” said the one who appeared to be the leader. “And we are proud of it. Have you any objections to make?”
“No,” we both answered in a breath, that being both English and Spanish, and I understanding enough of the question to be anxious to set myself right with them.
“I think our fathers have become rebels,” Alano answered. “At least, we were told so.”
“Good!” said the leader. “Then we have nothing to fear from two such brave lads as you appear to be. And now what do you propose to do—encamp here for the night?”