Hal darted to his feet and started down the slope, Ramirez posting after him. At the first sound of fire, the four pacificos had thrown themselves to the earth. Now they raised themselves, peering eagerly at their rescuers. “You are friends of Cuba?” panted Hal. A hot chorus in the affirmative answered him. “You will fight with us? There are more foes near.” “Si, si, si,” (yes, yes, yes) cried one of the pacificos, while the other three raised a tumultuous shout of: “Viva Cuba libre!” Hal and Juan instantly busied themselves with freeing the quartette. “Follow us to the top of the hill at your best speed,” yelled Maynard. He reached there ahead of the rescued ones, faced them, and shoved into the hands of each a rifle. As these were repeating weapons, each still contained several shots. Below, on the other side of the hill, an animated scene was going on. The squad, a few moments before lolling on the grass, had now sprung into saddle. Their officer was bawling himself hoarse with his rapidly delivered orders. For a few seconds the squad seemed uncertain whether to flee or fight. Hal kept his little force out of sight by making them crouch behind the bushes. “I have waited a year and more for such a chance as this,” sobbed one of the pacificos, kissing the barrel of his rifle, and Hal, looking the emaciated wretches over, had no doubt that they would fight to the last breath. Juan slipped back to where the horses were tethered, returning with more cartridges. Hal, in the meantime, had restrained the others from firing. “It would do little good at this range,” he explained, “and from what I have heard the Cubans are not so rich in ammunition that they can afford to waste any.” All the time he kept his eyes on the squad below. Their officer had decided upon an attack, for at a quick command from him the troopers spread out in skirmish line and advanced. Instantly the pacificos began to take eager aim. “Don’t fire yet,” ordered Hal. “But senor,” pleaded one of the quartette, “it is so hard to see the Spaniards, and yet not fire!” “The best fighters,” rejoined Hal, promptly, “are those who can keep cool and obey orders.” “The senor is right, mi amigos,” ejaculated Ramirez. “Twice he has restrained my impatience, and in consequence we won both times.” Bang! A line of fire ran along the skirmish line below, the reports sounding as one. Whish! whish! A tornado of whistling bullets tore through the leaves of the bushes that sheltered the little Cuban force. “Oh, mi amigo!” suddenly groaned Ramirez, turning white. For one of the bullets had struck Hal Maynard. Up flew his hand to his forehead. In the next second he keeled back--stretched out. CHAPTER X. UNDER CUBA’S FLAG. “Ten lives shall not pay for that one!” exclaimed Juan. But hardly were his words out when Hal sat up, wiping away the blood from his forehead. “I’m a long ways from dead yet,” he gritted, wiping away the blood. Ramirez ran to his side.