His nervous fingers glided swiftly over the American’s forehead, making quick examination of the wound. “Santa Maria be praised!” cheered the Cuban. “The wound is not a deep one.” “Glancing bullet, likely,” muttered Hal, rising to his knees, and picking up his rifle once more. “The shock knocked me over, I suppose. Perhaps fright had something to do with it.” “Fright?” echoed Juan, indignantly. “Nothing of the sort.” “Well, I’m certainly feeling some fright,” smiled Hal, his face more than a trifle pallid as he took another look down below at the squad trotting upward. They were just aiming for another volley, those Spaniards, who were now hardly more than an eighth of a mile away. “Down!” warned Maynard, himself setting the example. He had no more than ducked when the volley came. “Up!” quivered Hal. “Give ’em some of their own medicine!” Six shots rang out, almost simultaneously. Two saddles were emptied. “Keep a-pumping,” ordered Hal, breathlessly, as he discharged his own piece as fast as he could work the mechanism. His own wound had been caused undoubtedly by a glancing bullet, but this is the most painful kind of injury. It maddened him, made him utterly reckless. Five more saddles were quickly emptied By this time the firing was general. Clack! clack! clack! rang the hoofs. The cavalry, firing at will like their opponents, were now within a few yards of the top of the hill. The Cubans were overmatched. Hal felt that the last few moments of his life had come. Yet only one thought actuated him. Before he closed his eyes he would send as many Spaniards as possible to their last account. Crack! crack! crack! Half of the Spaniards were out of the fight by the time the two forces came face to face at little more than arm’s length. Bang! A ball from Juan Ramirez’s rifle passed clean through the head of the lieutenant in command, killing him instantly. “No quarter!” yelled Juan as the six leaped to their feet for hand-to-hand combat. “On the contrary!” thundered Hal. “Any enemy who throws down his gun must not be harmed!” A ball from a cavalryman’s revolver sent one of the pacificos staggering back--dead. Hal immediately avenged by killing the trooper. Now one of the enemy threw down his sabre and revolver, crying for quarter. “Spare his life, then,” shouted Hal, running forward. That command acted like magic. Not another shot was fired, for not one of the eight surviving Spaniards lost a second in surrendering. This they followed up by dismounting and submitting to being tied. Ramirez, with blood running from a wound in his left shoulder, superintended the work of tying. There were eight of the prisoners. As soon as bound, they were ordered to remount, and were next lashed to their saddles.