I was making a mental note of this picture of war and misery, when suddenly I saw a human form on the hilltop over which I had just come. The peculiar shape of the white hat worn by this apparition told me it was a soldier. In the middle of the white road he stopped, lowered a burden from his shoulders to the ground. What was that soldier doing there and what was the nature of his apparently heavy burden? From my perch on the balcony I beckoned to the sentry, who was pacing up and down in front of the commandante's house. The sentry came up to the balcony, took one look in the direction of my pointing finger, and then rushed into the house. The next moment the commandante appeared. With a field glass he surveyed the figure on the hilltop.
"He is carrying something," I said, as I watched the man in the distance reshoulder his burden and begin descending the hill.
"A dead man," said the commandante. And he closed the glasses, thoughtfully. Then he gave me a long black cigar.
We waited. At the end of half an hour the soldier approached the house. Yes, on his back he was carrying a corpse.
TELL-TALE SCRAP OF PAPER.
He laid his burden down in the road and saluted the commandante. A group of officers and soldiers had gathered round. The body was that of a noted insurgent captain. A scrap of paper was produced. It had been found in the dead man's pocket by the soldier who had carried the body into town.
The commandante read the paper. His brow contracted. Now he was all sternness.
"Bring the man, Jose Manual, here," he said to a sergeant.
Five minutes later an old man, all bones and skin, stood before us. The miserable man trembled as with the palsy.
"Si, senor, I did it. I ran over the hill. I informed. I alone am to blame."