So the long day wore by; it was as a man waking from a deep sleep that the wretched American looked up when the door of that cell was opened again. He found that the hours had flown by, and that the time for the trip to Morro had come.
If Clif had cared about anything then he would have shivered with horror at that moment, for it was surely gruesome and uncanny enough.
Three men there were, dark, silent, shadowy figures who entered the damp cell. The only light they had was from a dark lantern, which they flashed upon the solitary prisoner.
They found him still lying on the floor, but he raised up to look at them, his haggard, tortured face shining white in the rays of the lantern.
"Get up," commanded one of the men, in a low, muffled voice. "Get up."
The face of the speaker was shrouded in darkness, but Clif recognized the voice, and a cold chill shot over him.
"Ignacio again!" he gasped.
Yes. And Clif thought that this was the last—that Ignacio had gained his purpose. The task of murder was left to him.
But there was no chance of resistance. Clif felt the cold muzzle of a revolver pressed to his head, and so he put the thought away.
One of the men snapped a pair of handcuffs about his wrists, as if to make sure of him in case the ropes were not strong enough. And then one of them seized him by each arm and Ignacio stepped behind with the lantern.