Henry stopped, sank lower, and beckoned to his comrades. They crept to his
side and looked over a steep little cliff directly upon the Spanish camp.
Most of the soldiers were grouped about a large camp fire, and Francisco
Alvarez was among them in a place of honor.
Hidden in the deep shrubbery the three occupied points of vantage, and,
while secure from observation themselves, they could easily see all that
passed in the glade. Several tents had been set, although the flaps were
wide open and within one of these sat Francisco Alvarez in all the
gorgeous attire of a Spanish officer, most fastidious in his taste. The
gold on his uniform glittered, the lace on his cuffs was snowy and fresh,
and the polished hilt of his small sword gleamed in the firelight. He had
the air of one who expected distinguished guests.
"Now I wonder what has become of Braxton Wyatt," whispered Paul. Nowhere
could he see a sign of the renegade.
"He is coming," whispered Henry, who had what Shif'less Sol would have
called an intuition.
Two of the Spaniards heaped more wood upon the fire. The logs crackled
and blazed merrily, casting long tongues of flame across the glade, and
sending a grateful heat into the veins of the warm-blooded Southerners.
Pages:
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66