"Look!" she said. "Look yonder, Carlos! The grass moves."
"A snake, perhaps," said Carlos; "or a land-crab. Stand here a moment, and I will go forward and see."
He advanced, looking keenly at the clump of yellowish grass that Rita had pointed out. Certainly, the grass did move. It quivered, waved from side to side, then seemed to settle down, as if an invisible hand were pulling it from below. Carlos drew his machete, and bent forward; whereupon a loud yell was heard, and the clump of grass shot up into the air, revealing a black face, and a pair of rolling eyes.
"What is it?" cried Rita, in terror. "Carlos, come back to me! It is a devil!"
"Only a scout!" said her brother, laughing. "One of our own men on outpost duty. Have peace, Pablo! your hour is not yet come."
"Caramba! I thought it was, my captain!" said the negro scout, grinning. "Better be a crab than a Cuban in these days."
He was a singular figure indeed. From head to waist he was literally clothed in grass, bunches of it being tied over his head and round his neck and shoulders, falling to his thighs. A pair of ragged trousers of no particular colour completed his costume. A more perfect disguise could not be imagined; indeed, except when he lifted his head, he was not to be distinguished from the clumps and tufts of dry grass all about him.
"Pablo is a good scout!" said Carlos, approvingly. "No Gringo could possibly see you till he stepped on you, Pablo; and then—"
"And then!" said Pablo, grinning from ear to ear; and he drew his machete and went through an expressive pantomime which, if carried out, would certainly have left very little of Gringo or any one else.
"Is your post near here? show it! The señorita would like to see how a Cuban scout lives."