“Quien viva!” came the sonorous hail of a sentinel from the crenelled parapet.
“Gente de paz!” replied Gaspar, advancing alone, while Zapote, notwithstanding the obscurity of the night, instinctively placed himself behind the trunk of a tree.
“What is your wish?” demanded the guard.
“I am the bearer of important news from the Colonel Tres-Villas,” answered Gaspar.
“And we wish to communicate them to Lieutenant Veraegui,” added Zapote, from behind, but without leaving the shelter of the tree.
“How many of you are there?” asked the sentinel.
“Two.”
“You may advance, then,” said the soldier, dropping his carbine to the “order arms.”
The gate was soon opened; and Gaspar and Zapote, entering within the fortress, were conducted by the corporal of the guard towards the quarters of his commander.
The Lieutenant Veraegui was, at the moment, within one of the chambers of the mansion, engaged over a game of cards with a young alferez. On the table before them stood a bottle of Catalan brandy—the product of his own native province—clear and strong as alcohol. A couple of glasses flanked the bottle, and beside them lay a pile of Havana cigars.