Appleby shivered, and rising softly walked to the window as he remembered that the day that was breaking was the last he would ever see. He flung the lattice open, and his face grew grim as he looked out upon the town. It was as yet, for the most part, dim and shadowy, and two square church towers rose blackly against a sky of paling indigo, but here and there a white wall glimmered faintly, and a pearly lustre suffused the east. While he watched it became streaked with crimson, for in the tropics dawn comes suddenly, and by and by a long shaft of brightness streamed up into the sky. Then the city emerged from the shadow, and once more shone dazzlingly white in the morning sun. It awoke as suddenly, for men rise early in that country to work while it is cool, and a ringing of bugles rose from beyond the flat roofs clear and musical, while the white walls flung back the patter of feet, and the hum of voices became audible. Appleby listened with a dull hopelessness that was too intense for bitterness to the stir of reawakening life, though the contrast between his lot and that of the men whose voices he heard had its effect on him. They were going out to their toil, and would in due time sleep again, but before that day was over he would be at rest forever. Then as somebody went by below singing a little light‐hearted song he turned away with a groan, and saw that Harper was watching him. “You haven’t much use for singing,” he said. Appleby sat down with his back against the wall, and laughed somewhat hollowly. “No,” he said. “The only appropriate music would be a requiem.” “Well,” said Harper reflectively, “I don’t quite know, though I’m free to admit that I’m feeling a good deal more anxious than I care about. I was thinking, and didn’t sleep much last night, and it kind of seems to me the Spaniards have about enough on their backs just now.” Appleby shook his head. “The trouble is that Morales will take care that all anybody of consequence knows is that two of the Sin Verguenza were extinguished in Santa Marta,” he said. “Still, there’s another point. Morales doesn’t let up too easily on anything he means to put through, and he wouldn’t get very much out of either of us when we’re dead.” Appleby turned upon him almost savagely. “Stop,” he said. “You know the thing is decided as well as I do. Yesterday took a good deal of the stiffening out of me—and in another hour or two we shall have a tolerably difficult part to play.” Harper’s face grew suddenly grim. “Well,” he said a trifle hoarsely, “I guess we can face what is coming as well as a Spaniard can, and—I’ve got to admit it—nobody could expect any more from any man.” Appleby made no answer, but it was by an effort that, feeling his comrade’s eyes upon him, he sat still, when the door opened and a cazadore came in. He laid down a piece of bread and a bottle of thin red wine, and then glanced at them compassionately. “When will it be?” asked Appleby very quietly.