Presently the adjutant of the castle came by. He was a truculent, raw-
boned man in a ragged uniform. His spluttering voice issued out of a
flat, yellow face. The sergeant learned from him that the condemned
men would not be shot till sunset. He begged then to know what he was
to do with them meantime.

The adjutant looked savagely round the courtyard, and, pointing to the
door of a small dungeon-like guard-room, receiving light and air
through one heavily-barred window, said: "Drive the scoundrels in
there."

The sergeant, tightening his grip upon the stick he carried in virtue
of his rank, executed this order with alacrity and zeal. He hit Gaspar
Ruiz, whose movements were slow, over his head and shoulders. Gaspar
Ruiz stood still for a moment under the shower of blows, biting his
lip thoughtfully as if absorbed by a perplexing mental process--then
followed the others without haste. The door was locked, and the
adjutant carried off the key.

By noon the heat of that low vaulted place crammed to suffocation had
become unbearable. The prisoners crowded towards the window, begging
their guards for a drop of water; but the soldiers remained lying in
indolent attitudes wherever there was a little shade under a wall,
while the sentry sat with his back against the door smoking a
cigarette, and raising his eyebrows philosophically from time to time.
Gaspar Ruiz had pushed his way to the window with irresistible force.
His capacious chest needed more air than the others; his big face,
resting with its chin on the ledge, pressed close to the bars, seemed
to support the other faces crowding up for breath. From moaned