"Inspired of the Evil One? Oh no, it was--precaution. Yes, that was it, come to think; just precaution. You see, I and Dupin had scattered your guerrillas, and I was scouting ahead, to stir up any ambush waiting for us--which I did later, when we chased them, and burned Culebra. But going along, I heard snoring, and found you two, like two----Now sit still!" "Why didn't you wake me? Then we could have roped the Frenchman." "And have him identify me after we'd gotten the ransom? Oh, no, I'm a loyal Imperialist. Now listen a minute, will you?--Our Contras were following me not a half mile behind. That meant I had to work quick. You see, I wanted to find you both there when I could come back alone. And meantime, I didn't want you to hurt each other. If either got killed, there'd be no ransom. So I took your knife and his sabre. Then I tied you both with my lariat. I was going to get your lariat too, and tether the pair of you to a tree, hoping you'd hold each other there till I got back. _You_ would do it, for I meant to pin a note on your sleeve, explaining. But just that minute the Frenchman stirred, for the Cossacks were getting into his ears, so I had to run back and turn them into another path." "So long as it wasn't any of your infernal farces?" "Well, it _was_ worth a ransom, the way it turned out.--Sit still, will you? You _know_ I take you too seriously ever to think of any joke with _you_! Here's your artillery and cutlery. Quick now, clear out!" Both rose to go, each to his respective deviltry, but not six steps ahead in the black night Tiburcio stumbled over a soft, inert mass. He recovered himself, half cursing, half laughing. "One of your guards, Rodrigo," he muttered. "He must have got this far before the drug worked into his vitals." "Your mescal probably killed him," said Rodrigo indifferently. "But a little knife slit will look more plausible in the morning, for you it will." Getting to his knees on the stone walk the outlaw groped over the body for a place to strike, holding his knife ready. But all at once he stopped and got up hastily, without a word. He only rubbed his left hand mechanically on his jacket. "Well, what ails you?" asked Tiburcio. Rodrigo gave a short, apologetic laugh. "It--it's a woman!" He quit rubbing his hand, seeming to realize. "There's blood," he added. "Here," said Tiburcio, "you keep back, and run if anybody comes. I'm going to strike a match." By the flare they saw that it was a girl and that her head was crushed. Kneeling on either side, they peered questioningly, horrified, at each other. Their great sombreros almost touched. Their hard faces were yellow in the flickering light between, and the face looking up with its quiet eyes and dark purplish cleft in the brow was white, white like milk. With one accord the two men turned and gazed upward at the tower, whose black outline lost itself far above in the blacker shadows of the universe. They understood.