Adan stumbled across the room, plunged the dishes into a pail of
drinking water, then handed them to Roldan, who dried them hastily and
piled them on the shelf. Then he flung the water across the clay floor
of the hut.

"Get up the ladder," he commanded. Adan scrambled up. Roldan followed,
and pulled the ladder after him. The garret was very low, and half full
of skins. They could not stand upright. It was also bitterly cold. Each
hastily wrapped a skin about his body, and lay full length, Roldan on
his face, his eyes applied to a chink in the rough floor.

A few moments later the door was flung aside and the priest strode in.

Roldan shuddered, but not with personal fear. The priest looked like a
man who had just left the rack of his native Spain. His hair--the hood
had fallen back--stood on end, his face and tightened lips were livid,
his eyes rolled wildly.

"Jim!" he said hoarsely. "Jim!"

He left the hut as abruptly as he had entered it.

"He has gone to look at the mouth of the tunnel," whispered Roldan.
"What fools we were not to cover it up again. Then he would have walked
its length to find us, and the horses might have come before he
returned. Well, he cannot get us until he pulls the roof down."

"He could do it," whispered Adan, grimly. "Those hands! Dios de mi
alma!"