It was not altogether an empty boast. The Iberian is impulsive and unstable, and a word spoken in season will stir to any rashness a Latin crowd. The troops were disaffected, part of them, at least, openly mutinous, but Morales the Sword could grapple with a crisis. He was in the saddle in a moment, his voice rang clear and commanding above the tumult, and the men who wavered, uncertain what course to take, obeyed. The ranks wheeled, broke up, and grouped again in fours, the bugles rang shrilly, there was a roll of drums, and almost before Appleby quite realized what was happening the head of the leading company was filing out of the plaza, and Morales’ swift decision had saved the situation. Then a man touched Appleby’s shoulder, and he and Harper and another man stepped into an opening between the files. “You are to be felicitated. There are few who offend Morales he does not crush,” said the sergeant of the guard. Appleby made no answer. He was a trifle dazed, and his thoughts were in a whirl, but he noticed vacantly that there was a curious portentous silence as the troops marched back to the cuartel, and was glad when they reached it and he and Harper were thrust into the same room again. He sat down, somewhat limply, on the floor. “It was a trifle horrible—and I’m sorry we drank all the wine. Still, of course, no one could have guessed,” he said. He felt that his face was a little colorless, for his forehead was clammy and his lips were cold, but Harper’s was flushed, and he paced up and down the room until he stopped in front of Appleby. Then he said hoarsely, “I had a notion. That man never meant to wipe us out to‐day. We were to taste death, and live with the grit crushed out of us, because he figured we would be of some use to him. If I could get my hands on him I’d kill him.” Appleby had felt much the same anger, but he was calmer now. What he had witnessed had filled him with horror, and while he could have blamed Morales little for his sentence, since his life was a risk of the game, the attempt to crush his manhood by making him taste the anguish of death was unforgivable and an abomination. “Well,” he said very quietly, “our turn may come.” Harper once more strode up and down the room, and then stopped abruptly with a little laugh. “It’s kind of senseless talking just now,” he said. “We’re not going to worry Morales much while he has got us here. I wonder if anybody will remember to bring us our dinner.” Appleby smiled, and the tension relaxed, but his hands were trembling, and it cost him two or three matches to light the cigar Harper threw him. XXV — MORALES SITS STILL