Two hours had elapsed since Ignacio had been made prisoner, hours that to him appeared centuries. Exhausted by the violence of his exertions, and still more by the mental agony he had endured, his head fell forward on his breast, a cold sweat stood upon his forehead, and had it not been for the cords that held him up, he would have fallen to the ground. He was roused from this state of exhaustion and despair by the noise of approaching footsteps, and by the arrival of a dozen men, three or four of whom carried torches. They were dressed in the sort of half uniform worn by the Carlist _volantes_, or irregular troops; round their waists were leathern belts filled with cartridges, and supporting bayonets and long knives, in many instances without sheaths. Ignacio observed with a shudder that several of the ruffians had their hands and weapons stained with blood. "Whom have we here?" exclaimed a sallow, evil-visaged fellow, who wore a pair of tarnished epaulets. "Is this the _negro_ you secured at the beginning of the affair?" One of the men nodded assent, and the chief bandit, taking a torch, passed it before the face of the captive officer. "_Un militar_!" exclaimed he, observing the uniform button. "Your name and rank?" Receiving no reply, he stepped a little on one side, and looked to the coat-cuff for the usual sign of grade. "_Teniente coronel_!" cried he on seeing the double stripe. A man stepped forward, and Ignacio, who knew that death was the best he had to expect at the hands of these ruffians, and was observing their proceedings in stern silence, immediately recognized a deserter from his battalion. "'Tis the Colonel Ignacio Guerra," said the man; "he commands the first battalion of the Toledo regiment." An exclamation of surprise and pleasure burst from the Carlists on hearing the name of an officer and battalion, well known and justly dreaded among the adherents of the Pretender. Their leader again threw the light of the torch on the features of the Christino, and gazed at him for the space of a minute with an expression of cruel triumph. "Ha!" exclaimed he, "_el Coronel Guerra! He_ is worth taking to headquarters." "We shall have enough to do to get away ourselves, laden as we are," said one of the men, pointing to a number of large packages of plunder lying on the grass hard by. "Who is to take charge of the prisoner? Not I, for one." A murmur among the other brigands approved this mutinous speech. "_Cuatro tiros_," suggested a voice. "Yes," said the leader, "to bring down the enemy's pickets upon us. They are not a quarter of a league off. Pedro, lend me your knife. We will see," he added with a cruel grin, "how the gallant colonel will look cropped." A knife-blade glanced for a moment in the torchlight as it was passed round the head of the Christino officer.