“A cry of some kind,” I answered. “Listen!”
We stepped behind some trees, to avoid any enemies who might be about, and remained silent. Again came the cry.
“It is a man in distress!” said Alano presently. “He asks us not to desert him.”
“Then he probably saw us from the window of the hut. What had we best do?”
“You remain here, and I will investigate,” rejoined my Cuban chum.
With caution he approached the thatched hut, a miserable affair, scarcely twelve feet square and six feet high, with the trunks of palm trees as the four corner-posts. There were one tiny window and a narrow door, and Alano after some hesitation entered the latter, pistol in hand.
“Come, Mark!” he cried presently, and I ran forward and joined him.
A pitiable scene presented itself. Closely bound to a post which ran up beside the window was a Cuban negro of perhaps fifty years of age, gray-haired and wrinkled. He was scantily clothed, and the cruel green-hide cords which bound him had cut deeply into his flesh, in many places to such an extent that the blood was flowing. The negro’s tongue was much swollen, and the first thing he begged for upon being released was a drink of water.
We obtained the water, and also gave him what we could to eat, for which he thanked us over and over again, and would have kissed our hands had we permitted it. He was a tall man, but so thin he looked almost like a skeleton.