A hundred yards were passed, and the young war correspondent espied a fine horse tied to a palm tree in front of a small shop. He jerked the strap clear and leaped upon the animal's back. "Don't go so fast!" roared a voice from the shop, and a fat planter came out, riding-whip in hand. "A necessity!" returned Howard. "Here is gold for the horse," and he threw down several pieces. Ere the planter had time to argue the point, Howard had urged the horse forward, out of his hearing. It was a spirited animal, and made rapid progress, and soon the prison was left far behind, and the outskirts of Marambo were reached. The young war correspondent had no idea where he was going. Every road was strange to him. Yet he knew that he must place many miles between himself and the authorities before he could consider himself even temporarily safe. A turn in the road Howard was pursuing brought him down into a vale, lined upon each side with palm trees and dense bushes. As he pushed his way along he frequently looked back, but could discover no signs of pursuit. After an hour's hard riding even the horse showed signs of fatigue. A low cabin came into view, and here Howard dismounted and rapped at the door. A negro woman answered his summons, and readily agreed to sell him something to eat. She had not much to offer, but Howard was voraciously hungry, and ate what there was with a keen relish. Once more he set out, and soon the end of the valley was reached, and he began to ascend a hill. Beyond Howard could see a long, flat stretch of country, but before this could be reached the horse without warning plunged one leg into a large ant nest, or hole, and sank to the earth in a heap, uttering a sharp cry of pain as it rolled over, which told only too plainly of a broken leg. Howard quickly realized that he must now continue his flight on foot. The horse was worse than useless, and, to put him out of his suffering, the young war correspondent considerately ended his life. Then he went on, along a foot-path at the brow of the hill, until, fatigued to the last degree, he halted near some flat rocks, and sat down to rest. Presently, the murmur of voices broke upon his ear. He listened but for a moment, then sprang to his feet in amazement. "You must write the letter, my dear lady, or all will not be well with you," came in a rough Spanish voice. "We must have gold, or you shall never see home and friends again." "You are a villain!" came in the sweet, but indignant voice of Estella. "I will not write for you." "Then you'll take the consequences, miss. We gipsies know how to bring obstinate people to terms. We have wasted too much time on you. Write at once." A spell of silence followed. Howard stepped forward to learn whence the voices proceeded. "Help! help!" suddenly cried Estella, in a voice that caused Howard's blood to boil in his veins. "Father in heaven! will nobody aid me?"