O'Reilly gazed at the object with horrified fascination; then with a sudden sick feeling of dizziness he retired to his room, asking himself if he were responsible for that poor fellow's death.
Meanwhile the citizens of Puerto Principe looked on with stony eyes. There was no cheering among them, only a hush in their chatter, above which sounded the rattle of accoutrements, the clump-clump of hoofs, and the exultant voices of the Spanish troopers.
For some reason or other Leslie Branch was nowhere to be found; his room was locked and no one had seen him; hence there was no possibility of warning him, until that evening, when he appeared while O'Reilly was making a pretense of eating dinner.
"Where the devil have you been?" the latter inquired, anxiously.
"Been getting out my weekly joke about the revolution. Had to write up this morning's 'battle.' Couldn't work in my room, so I—"
"Sit down; and don't jump when I tell you what has happened. We're going to be pinched at midnight."
"Why midnight?"
"I don't know, unless that's the fashionable hour for military calls."
"What's it all about?"
"I guess they don't like us. Have you got anything incriminating about you?"