Meanwhile Roger had acted his part with swiftness and discretion. He had replied to the rude laughter of the attendant with a scowl and with seemingly angry words, and so well did he play his _rôle_ that the sentry turned on his heel and marched down the street, to relate the misfortune which had happened to the attendant. It was, in fact, a welcome episode in the long and weary duty of acting sentry. "Who will come?" demanded Roger. "And who are you?" "My lord Teotlili and a servant. There will be more besides. As for me, I am a friend to the Spaniards, or was till this last week. Hush! They have taken my wife and my daughter from me, and I will therefore leave them. To-night, my lord, and in that corner." "Wait," said Roger, eagerly, while he curled himself up as if about to seek sleep once more. "What of the other English prisoners? They must be rescued." "Impossible, my lord. The town swarms with natives and with Spaniards. Escape for you is well-nigh out of the question. For many it is hopeless." "Listen," said Roger, sternly, as he buried his head in his arms again, as if he had done with the man. "These comrades of mine must be rescued. Bid Teotlili make arrangements to take them also. Say that it is my wish and my order, and that unless it is carried out I do not take advantage of their efforts. Now go. I shall be ready to-night when the time comes, but only if the others are taken also." It was almost comical to watch the attendant's expression as the words reached his ear, strange words, too, for who amongst the natives ever heard of such a proposal? Here was a young man, condemned to die at sunrise, and he declined to be rescued unless comrades received help also. It was sheer madness, ingratitude almost to those who were taking such risks for him, and who well might fall victims themselves. His chin dropped, his eyes opened to the fullest extent of the lids, and he stared at Roger spellbound. "Fool! The sentry will suspect," said our hero, sharply. "You heard the message and my determination. Then go, and bring me more food later on. I shall be hungry before the night comes, and a hungry man is weak. Besides, you may have news." He shut his eyes as if already asleep, and when the sentry again passed the doorway he observed the prisoner lying still in the shade, and the attendant bearing the jar and the remains of the repast away, looking ruefully at his shins as he came. "A clumsy fall," remarked the sentry. "In the days of Mexican power a tumble like that in the presence of so great a man might have led to trouble." "It has done so now, comrade," was the answer. "My lord was asleep, and scolded me. But I am forgiven, though I cannot easily excuse myself. However, he sleeps again, and will continue to do so. It is a farce setting a watch over him when there are so many of us about and the walls are so high."