“Because dey shot him; shot him like dey’d shoot a dog!” she answered bitterly. “Come, missus, come! We got to get him to de big house before dark.” Great tears pouring down her black face, she walked on, not daring to tell that the old man had said Heriot was dead. It had seemed a long, rough way last night in the dark to that rocky gully for the two men who sweated under their burden, with eyes everywhere for the dangers they must dare if Heriot’s end were to be sure. It was a risky thing--for the throwers--to cast an insensible man down into a jaguar’s den, and they ran for their lives afterward for what seemed miles--would have run vainly if chance had not taken the old man and his beasts to sleep elsewhere. But it was really no distance, even for a woman swaying with pain and dizziness, by the smooth, narrow track the old man took. There was no room for two to walk abreast, and the black woman put her strong hands under Andria’s arms from behind and steadied her, for pain made her reel. In between two high rocks they passed, and then squeezed through a narrow passage that wound and burrowed like the dried-up brook it was, between two high cliffs. Over their heads the blue sky showed like a narrow ribbon; the dark air of the passage felt like a cellar, and, with each step they took after the crazy man, a strange, wild smell grew pungent in their nostrils. “It’s de cats,” began Salome disgustedly, and then yelled in Andria’s ear, and nearly threw her down with her start. Something had touched her skirts, and over her shoulder she saw at her very heels, what seemed an endless procession of wild beasts, walking softly in her footsteps. “Oh, my soul!” Salome yelled again, and scuffled wildly to pass Andria. “Dey’s got me.” The old man turned with a grin. “Be quiet, woman!” he said, in his guttural Spanish. “Those are my sisters and brothers and their children. They will not touch you till I say--kill!” but at the word the nearest beast gave a whining snarl, and Salome, with one bound of terror, passed their master, nearly squeezing him to death, and out of the passage into a round, open space like a quarry that narrowed up into the rocky gully, where last night a murderer had thrown his victim. But Andria cared nothing for Salome or the jaguars. Straight opposite the rocky wall of the queer place was undermined into an overhanging cave, and under it, rolled in a ragged blanket, was the motionless figure of a man. “Heriot!” she sobbed, and ran to him. But he did not open his eyes, as she knelt beside him, and the hand she seized in hers was stone-cold in the hot, close air. CHAPTER XXX. MOTHER FELICITAS. “Ah!” It was an indescribable sound, and it stopped sweet-faced Sister De Sales in the serious business of laying out her neat little account-books.