It was not for himself that the poor cadet feared. He could have marched out without flinching and faced a dozen rifles aimed at his heart.
But it was for Bessie Stuart, fallen into the hands of these brutal men. The fate that was before her was enough to make Clif wish her dead.
He racked his brains trying to think of how she could have come to Havana; could she have been captured in a battle? And what had Ignacio to do with it?
But poor Clif knew nothing, and could think of nothing except that she was here, and he powerless to aid her.
His own fate was terrible enough, though he hardly thought of that.
He was to be sent at night to Morro.
Many indeed were the unfortunates who had gone to take that sea trip in the darkness and never come back—and sometimes not reached their destination either. It was a terrible journey, that short ride across Havana Bay.
But the cadet did not even stop to realize that. He had but one thought, and that he kept repeating over and over to himself in a state of confusion and despair. He never moved from his one position on the floor; and the hours flew by unheeded.
Once and once only the heavy door of the cell was opened and that by a man who shoved in a pitcher of water and a dish of food. He must have thought the prisoner asleep.
And as a fact, Clif was half unconscious; he was too dazed to think of anything. He had no hope and no chance of life, and nothing to think of except that Bessie Stuart was captured and he could not aid her.