“For two days was I tied up,” he explained to Alano, in his Spanish patois. “I thought I would die of hunger and thirst, when, on raising my eyes, I beheld you and your companion. Heaven be praised for sending you! Andres will never forget you for your goodness, never!”
“And how came you in this position?” questioned my chum.
“Ah, dare I tell, master?”
“You are a rebel?”
The negro lowered his eyes and was silent.
“If you are, you have nothing to fear from us,” continued Alano.
“Ah—good! good!” Andres wrung his hand. “Yes, I am a rebel. For two years I fought under our good General Maceo and under Garcia. But I am old, I cannot climb the mountains as of yore, and I got sick and was sent back. The Spanish soldiers followed me, robbed me of what little I possessed, and, instead of shooting me, bound me to the post as a torture. Ah, but they are a cruel set!” And the eyes of the negro glowed wrathfully. “If only I was younger!”
“Were the Spaniards on horseback?” asked Alano.
“Yes, master—a dozen of them.”
Alano described the bandits we had met, and Andres felt certain they must be the same crowd. The poor fellow could scarcely stand, and sank down on a bed of cedar boughs and palm branches. We did what we could for him, and in return he invited us to make his poor home our own.