“A strangely stifled voice commanded, ‘Haul the hitches tighter.’
“‘Si, senor,’ several other voices answered in tones of awed alacrity.
“Then the stifled voice said: ‘Like this. I must be free to breathe.’
“Then there was a concerned noise of many men together. ‘Help him up, hombres. Steady! Under the other arm.’
“That deadened voice, ordered: ‘Bueno! Stand away from me, men.’
“I pushed my way through the recoiling circle, and heard once more that same oppressed voice saying earnestly: ‘Forget that I am a living man, Jorge. Forget me altogether, and think of what you have to do.’
“‘Be without fear, senor. You are nothing to me but a gun carriage, and I shall not waste a shot.’
“I heard the spluttering of a port-fire, and smelt the saltpetre of the match. I saw suddenly before me a nondescript shape on all fours like a beast, but with a man’s head drooping below a tubular projection over the nape of the neck, and the gleam of a rounded mass of bronze on its back.
“In front of a silent semicircle of men it squatted alone with Jorge behind it and a trumpeter motionless, his trumpet in his hand, by its side.
“Jorge, bent double, muttered, port-fire in hand: ‘An inch to the left, senor. Too much. So. Now, if you let yourself down a little by letting your elbows bend, I will...’