“The Colonel Morales sends for you,” he said, and though there was apparently nobody within hearing dropped his voice a little. “If he asks you questions let him wait for your answer. It is necessary that you should keep him talking at least ten minutes.” Appleby felt a little quiver run through him, and saw that Harper’s face had grown suddenly intent. “Why?” he asked. The man made a little gesture expressive of indecision. “The guard is changed then—and who knows what may happen? The men who come on duty are my comrades of the Barremedas—and they are afraid. This Morales is most terrible in his quietness. There is also below a merchant of tobacco.” Appleby saw the sudden sparkle in Harper’s eyes, but he put a strong constraint upon himself, for he dared not hope too much. He knew Maccario’s daring, but it was difficult to believe that he would venture into the cuartel where there were men who could scarcely fail to recognize him. Still, he remembered the signs of disaffection among the troops, and that Cuba was steeped in intrigue. “We are ready,” he said very quietly. The soldier signed to them, and they followed him—down the outer stairway, and up another, along a corridor where two guards were stationed, and into a room where their guide, who raised his hand and swung round, left them. The room was small, with one lattice in it that apparently opened on to the street and not the patio, and Morales sat alone, with his sword and kepi on the table before him, which was littered with papers. He looked up with expressionless eyes, and then while they stood quivering a little with suspense went on writing for the space of four minutes by the clock behind him. Appleby, who understood his purpose, felt that this would count for a good deal if ever there was a reckoning between them, but seeing the flush of passion in Harper’s lean face he once more put a grim constraint upon himself. Knowing the Castilian temperament he also fancied that at this game he could hold his own with Morales. At last the soldier shook a little sand over what he had written, and carefully cleaned his pen before he turned to them. “It seemed to me you might have concluded that the decision you made was a trifle hasty, Senor Appleby,” he said. “You gave me no opportunity of changing it,” said Appleby as quietly as he could, though he realized that his voice was not quite his usual one. “In any case I do not see what I gain. We are under sentence, and one has usually a motive for what he does in Cuba.” Morales glanced at him steadily with keen dark eyes, and Appleby wondered whether he had assumed too great an eagerness by suggesting that he might be willing to treat with a man who had hitherto found him obdurate. Then the officer smiled. “It is evident that the man who passed the sentence could commute it,” he said.