anchorage in the solid masonry, as a shrub is uprooted from soft
ground. The rods bent and twisted; there was a clank and rattle
and clash of metal upon the flags; and then--Sebastian turned upon
his tormentor, a free man, save only for the wide iron bracelets
and their connecting chain. He was quite insane. His face was
frightful to behold; it was apelike in its animal rage, and he
towered above his master like some fabled creature out of the
African jungle of his forefathers.

Sebastian's fists alone would have been formidable weapons, but
they were armored and weighted with the old-fashioned, hand-
wrought irons which Pancho Cueto had locked upon them. Wrapping
the chain in his fingers, the slave leaped at Esteban and struck,
once. The sound of the blow was sickening, for the whole bony
structure of Esteban Varona's head gave way.

There was a horrified cry from the other white men. Don Pablo Peza
ran forward, shouting. He swung his machete, but Sebastian met him
before the blow could descend, and they went down together upon
the hard stones. Again Sebastian smote, with his massive hands
wrapped in the chain and his wrists encased in steel, and this
time it was as if Don Pablo's head had been caught between a
hammer and an anvil. The negro's strength, exceptional at all
times, was multiplied tenfold; he had run amuck. When he arose the
machete was in his grasp and Don Pablo's brains were on his
knuckles.

It all happened in far less time than it takes to tell. The
onlookers had not yet recovered from their first consternation; in
fact they were still fumbling and tugging at whatever weapons they