“A white man!” he gasped. “In the guard room the same as me!”
He threw out his chest and strutted around the room, as though a great honor had come to him. The soldiers at the door laughed. The native turned and blinked his eyes at them, mouthed some meaningless phrases, and appeared to be dazed again. Twice he shrieked like a soul in torment. He beat his fists against the wall of the guard room.
“Sí! That wine is strong stuff!” one of the soldiers said.
Still they remained watching. But the native, it seemed, was exhausted. He slipped down to the floor, crawled over against the wall, and let his head topple to one side. Twice he nodded, and then he began to snore. The troopers closed the little door of the aperture. The fun was over.
Though he had recognized the native, Señor Zorro had spoken no word. He was not certain whether the man was under the influence of palm wine or shamming. He listened and heard the two soldiers walk down the corridor, then turned his head and glanced at the native again. The native had opened one of his eyes and was watching the door.
“They are drinking your wine,” Zorro hissed.
“Sí, señor! One moment!”
The native slipped slowly and carefully along the wall until he was within a few feet of Señor Zorro.
“I thought it out, señor,” he said. “I know those maniac’s shirts, for once they bound me and put me in one. And I have a sharp knife—”
“Careful!” Señor Zorro warned. “If you succeed in this I will make you rich for life!”