The Spaniard looked at Braxton Wyatt as he lay in his blanket, one arm
under his head, and his lip curled. He despised him, and yet he could be
very useful. He would have to work with him and he must treat him at least
with superficial politeness. Then he looked at the prisoner. Paul, too,
slept soundly, his fine face thrown into relief in the wan moonlight,
every sensitive feature revealed. Alvarez wondered again that he should
find a youth of such classic countenance and cultivated mind in the deep
forest.

The wandering breeze ceased, and the wilderness fell into a silence so
deep and heavy that it preyed upon the nerves of the Spaniard. Then, out
of the stillness came a long, plaintive note, wailing, but musical, full
of a quality that made it seem to Alvarez weird and ominous.

"Only the howl of a wolf," muttered the Spaniard, who recognized the
long-drawn cry. But it made him shiver a little, nevertheless. He alone
was awake, except the sentinels, and he felt like a tiny, lost speck in
all the vast wilderness. A second time came the cry of the wolf, and then
it was repeated a third and a fourth time. After the fourth it ceased.

The four cries were so distinct, so equal in length, and repeated at such
regular intervals that they seemed to Francisco Alvarez like set notes. He
listened intently, but they did not come again. He glanced at the prisoner
but Paul had not stirred, the moon's rays illuminating his face with a
pale light. The renegade, too, slept soundly.

Alvarez wrapped himself in his blanket after the fashion of the others,
and lay down, but still sleep would not come. He knew that it was far in
the night and he wished to be rested and fresh for the next day, but he
lay awake, nevertheless. A half hour passed, and then came that plaintive