“Oh, if you have the courage, yes,” replied the girl, carelessly. They walked on together through the dense alleys of vegetation, and finally came to an opening which showed them a sandy plain, and across it the strong white stone walls of the fort, facing the wide river, and behind it the blue background of Lake Nicaragua. Not a human form was visible either on the walls or on the plain. Fort San Carlos, in spite of the fact that it bristled with cannon, seemed like an abandoned castle. The two stood silent for a moment at the margin of the jungle, the young officer running his eye rapidly over the landscape, always bringing back his gaze to the seemingly deserted stronghold. “Your three hundred and forty men keep themselves well hidden,” he said at last. “Yes,” replied the girl, nonchalantly, “they fear that if they show themselves you may hesitate to attack a fortress that is impregnable.” “Well, you may disabuse their minds of that error when you return.” “Are you going to keep my stiletto?” asked the girl, suddenly changing the subject. “Yes, with your permission.” “Then keep your word, and give me your pistol in return.” “Did I actually promise it?” “You promised, Señor.” “Then in that case, the pistol is yours.” “Please hand it to me.” Her eagerness to obtain the weapon was but partially hidden, and the young man laughed as he weighed the fire-arm in his hand, holding it by the muzzle. “It is too heavy for a slim girl like you to handle,” he said, at last. “It can hardly be called a lady’s toy.” “You intend, then, to break your word,” said the girl, with quick intuition, guessing with unerring instinct his vulnerable point. “Oh, no,” he cried, “but I am going to send the pistol half-way home for you,” and with that, holding it still by the barrel, he flung it far out on the sandy plain, where it fell, raising a little cloud of dust. The girl was about to speed to the fort, when, for the third time, the young man grasped her wrist. She looked at him with indignant surprise. “Pardon me,” he said, “but in case you should wish to fire the weapon, you must have some priming. Let me pour a quantity of this gunpowder into your hand.” “Thank you,” she said, veiling her eyes, to hide their hatred. He raised the tiny hand to his lips, without opposition, and then into her satin palm, from his powderhorn, he poured a little heap of the black grains. “Good-bye, señor,” she said, hurrying away. She went directly to where the pistol had fallen, stooped and picked it up. He saw her pour the powder from her hand on its broad, unshapely pan. She knelt on the sand, studied the clumsy implement, resting her elbow on her knee. The young man stood there motionless, bareheaded, his cap in his hand. There was a flash and a loud report; and the bullet cut the foliage behind him, a little nearer than he expected. He bowed low to her, and she, rising with an angry gesture, flung the weapon from her.