“For you dare not put me in the guard room!” the native declared. “I have too many friends.”
The trooper exploded and rushed forward. “Low-born dog!” he shrieked. He caught the native and cuffed him, and instead of taking the blows calmly, the native fought back. It was too much!
“Into the guard room you go!” the soldier shouted. “And when the commandante returns he probably will order you whipped. And I’ll wield the lash! Give me that bottle!”
The trooper took the bottle and sat it down carefully, having noticed that it was half full, then hustled the native inside and along the corridor to the door of the guard room. The other soldier looked up questioningly.
“This dog has been drinking palm wine and making remarks about his excellency!” the first soldier said. “Throw him into the guard house. He is fit company for Señor Zorro!”
The door was opened, the native was hurled inside, and the door was closed and barred again. The two soldiers peered through the small aperture in it. They saw the native pick himself up and look around as though dazed.
“Ha!” one of the troopers cried. “He will wonder what it is all about before morning. That palm wine is dangerous stuff.”
“And I took half a bottle of it from the dog before we put him in,” the other whispered.
“Let us watch a moment before we sample it.”
The native glanced toward the corner where Señor Zorro, in the maniac’s shirt, was propped up on a bench. He lurched toward him, bent forward, and peered into his face.