"Come, come!" said Jack; "what is it, Antonio? Pepito, let him go!" Pepito sprang away instantly. "The Busno wanted to wake the Señor," he piped, with a fierce look at Antonio. "You waked me between you. Well, Antonio?" "Señor, I was on night duty; I was to be relieved at two o’clock, so it was arranged by Don Cristobal; the chief was to relieve me. He did not come. I waited, one hour, two hours; he did not come. The Señor knows I would not leave my post. At five came Don Cristobal on his round of the posts. I told him; he put a man in my place and I went home tired as a dog, and there, in the top room I share with the chief, there, Señor, I saw him, Pablo Quintanar, on the floor, still, dead, and blood all round him." Jack looked sharply at the man. There was every sign of amazement and agitation in his face, but Jack remembered that he had quarrelled with his chief on the previous day, and could not but suspect there had been a repetition of the dispute when the men met in their lodging, and that, possibly by accident, it was Antonio’s knife that had done the fatal work. Antonio appeared to guess what was passing in his captain’s mind. "I swear I did not do it, Señor. I knew nothing of it till I saw him there on the floor. We quarrelled; yes, the Señor knows that, but I keep my knife for the French; I would not—" "Take me to the place," interrupted Jack coldly. Staying only to pull on his boots, he accompanied the man to the dirty lane and into the dingy house from which Miguel had stealthily issued some six hours before. Pepito was at his heels as he climbed the filthy staircase; the gipsy sniffed and snorted at the foul odours his nostrils encountered, and put his hand on his knife as he passed each doorway. They entered the attic. The gray light of a dull morning coming through a narrow skylight barely illuminated the sordid room. On the floor, stretched on his face, with arms extended towards the door, lay the figure of the guerrillero. This was no death in fair fight, face to face with his enemy; but the base, stealthy thrust of an assassin. "That is how I found him, Señor," said Antonio. "Yes; it is the Spanish way." He had noticed that the dead man’s hand clasped a knife. Stooping, he removed it from his grasp; the steel was bright and clear, as though it had never been used for any but innocent purposes. Jack, as he held the weapon, reflected. The man had drawn his knife. It must have been for attack or for self-defence against an enemy in front of him; therefore the blow from behind that killed him must have been dealt by a second person. Antonio was scarcely likely to have brought another man into his personal quarrel; Jack was inclined to believe that he was guiltless, as he said. He looked around the room; there were few signs of a scuffle. It was useless to institute an enquiry among the other people in the house, and the sound of musketry and cannon-shots without already called him to his duties.