give directions for the camp that night. Sunset was not far away, and they
would remain in the glade. His was too strong a force to fear attack in
that isolated region, but Alvarez posted sentinels, and ordered the others
to sleep, when the time came, in a wide ring about the fire. Within the
ring he and Paul and Wyatt sat, and the Spaniard, maintaining his light,
ironic humor, talked much. Paul, if addressed directly by Alvarez, always
answered, but he persistently ignored the renegade. Such a being filled
him with horror, and once, when Wyatt gave him a look of deadly hate, Paul
shot back one of his own, fully a match for it. But that was all.

Night came on fast. The red sun shot down. Darkness fell upon the forest,
and swept up to the circling rim of the camp fire. Chill came into the
air. The Spaniards shivered and crept a little nearer to the coals. Talk
ceased, and, out of the illimitable forest, came the low, moaning sound of
the wind among the leaves. The great stars sprang out, and shone with a
thin, pale light on the wilderness.

Francisco Alvarez was a brave man, but he was born on sunny plains where
he basked in warmth and the eye ranged far. Now, despite himself, he felt
a chill that was uncanny. The forest, thick and black, spread away, he
knew, for hundreds of miles, and neither city nor town broke it. A fervent
imagination leaped up and peopled it with weird beings. Nor would
imagination go down before will and knowledge. Boughs twisted themselves
into fantastic, hideous shapes, and the moan of the wind was certainly
like the cry of a soul in torment.

Don Francisco Alvarez shivered and the shiver became a shudder. He looked
across the fire at his prisoner, but Paul seemed unconscious of the forest
and the night, and the demon spell of the two. The lad sat immovable. Upon
his face was the dreamy, mystic look that so often came there. He seemed