With his absorbing interest in America, the elegant Captain Ramon would certainly have mentioned the detail--had there been an American among the seven executed this day. Was Bart more Mexican than American? Was he regarded as a native, pure and simple, by his fellow-bandits and the rurales, or had he left Sonora altogether? These questions continually hammered through Elbert’s consciousness. Meanwhile, since compliments were the order in all conversation, he was with difficulty trying to convey to Ramon Bistula how enthusiastic the trooper he had ridden with in the afternoon, had expressed himself toward his captain. ‘Do all your men feel the same toward you?’ he inquired. ‘They are pleased with small things,’ lightly said Ramon. ‘To-morrow, perhaps, you will see the rest of my troop.’ ‘They are not all here in Arecibo then?’ ‘Ah, no--a third party is due to report at this time. We look for further captives with them. Six more of Vallejo’s men were brought in to-day by a second squad.’ ‘Six more prisoners here alive in Arecibo now?’ ‘Yes, Señor, waiting death now in the patio of el cuartel yonder--a mere formality--the paper from General Cordano--any moment.’ Elbert turned his head away. ‘Great night for guitars,’ he said. ‘Ah, to hear the bands of countless pieces in the great plazas of America!’ Elbert heard his own voice reach out plaintively in the hush. ‘When do these further executions--?’ ‘To-morrow--next day--who can tell? We wait the order only. You care for these things?’ ‘I could hardly say that, Captain. I was only wondering at the manner in which the prisoners face the end--if an American would act the same?’ ‘Ah, doubtless Americans would accept with perfect composure--it is the least a man can do--’ ‘Are all these men calm?’ ‘Again, please?’ ‘Are they all calm?’ ‘Calm. I had not thought of that! They are so-so. Why not come with me now, and let us see if they are calm.’ The Captain explained that he was due to report at el cuartel at this time, but that his personal quarters were in the fonda, the picket-line of his own men being at the other side of town. El cuartel, it was to be noted, was spoken of with faint scorn, as the home of Cordano’s soldiers--a poor-house and prison combined. The two strolled across the plaza and the heavy wooden gate of the quarters swung wide. Only the front of the building had a second floor. It was like a tunnel of clay they entered, wide and high enough for a horseman to ride in, with a narrow door leading to the barracks on one side and to an office on the other. Elbert smelled the earthiness of the dried clay walls, as he passed through at the spurred heels of Ramon Bistula. The suggestions of underground began to haunt him--the presence of condemned men--this very day--the blank wall!