So far, the intense excitement had kept him up, but now came the reaction, and he felt as sick as he had while on the _Brooklyn_. His head began to spin and strange lights flashed before his eyes, while chills crept up and down his backbone. "I reckon I'm in for a spell of sickness, whether I escape or not," he groaned, and reaching the woods, threw himself down under a mahogany tree to rest. Walter thought he could not sleep, but presently the pain became less and he sank into a troubled slumber. He roused up to find a tall, fine-looking negro shaking him. As soon as he opened his eyes, the negro began to question him in Spanish. "I can't understand you," said the youth, and shook his head. "_Americano_, mistair?" questioned the negro, and Walter nodded. "You come from big fight, maybe?" he went on, brokenly. "What fight do you mean?" "Fight down by Morro last night. Spanish sink your ship, maybe, not so?" And the negro laughed. "Our men did the sinking. But who are you? a Spaniard?" "No, me Cuban, Carlos Dunetta." "My name is Walter Russell, but I suppose it might be Smith for all the difference it makes to you," replied Walter, moodily. "What do you intend to do? turn me over to the Spanish authorities?" "To de Spanish? No, no!" Carlos Dunetta leaned forward. "_Cuba libre!_ 'Member de _Maine_! Not so?" And he smiled broadly. "Now you are talking!" ejaculated Walter, joyfully. "You are an insurgent, I suppose. Do you belong to General Garcia's troops?" Again the negro leaned forward. "Carlos Dunetta spy for de general," he whispered. "Come, want to get away, must hurry!" And he took hold of Walter's arm. Their course was directly into the woods, under broad mahogany and grenadillo trees, and over rough rocks overgrown with rank vines. Insects and bugs were numerous and spider-webs hung everywhere. "Udder men all caught and taken to prison," said the Cuban as they progressed. "I hear dat from udder spy." "Well, I'm not out of the woods yet," said Walter, seriously. "Woods safe place in daytime," answered the negro, not catching his true meaning. They had progressed less than half a mile when Walter began to lag behind. "I can't go any farther," he declared. "I've been sick and I'm about used up." "Sick? What is de mattair?" "I don't know--unless it is malarial fever." At the word "fever" Carlos Dunetta drew down the corners of his broad mouth. "Fever? Dat is werry bad--_Americano_ canno stand dat. Maybe I best carry you to Josefina's hut. Josefina she my sistair. She take care of you if so you be sick." The tall negro took Walter upon his back with ease and continued on his way. Presently they reached a trail, and passing along this for the distance of a hundred yards, came within sight of a long, low hut, thatched with palm.