forms. There were seven hundred of them. Now and then a brighter lantern beam shot all the way to the towering tropical trees, which, standing shoulder to shoulder, walled in the grass-grown patio. Under the hanging lanterns and facing the ragged band stood the administrador, or general manager, the mayordomo primero, or superintendent, and the lesser bosses, the mayordomos segundos, the majacol and the capataces.
"Rosanta Bajeca!"
The name, squeaked out by the voice of the administrador, brought from the crowd a young Yaqui, medium-sized, sinewy-bodied, clean-featured, with well-formed head erect on square shoulders, bony jaw fixed, dark, deep set eyes darting rapidly from one side to another of the circle which surrounded him, like a tiger forced out of the jungle and into the midst of the huntsmen.
"Off with your shirt!" rasped the administrador, and at the words superintendent and foremen ringed closer about him. One reached for the garment, but the Yaqui fended the hand, then with the quickness of a cat, dodged a cane which swished at his bare head from the opposite direction. For one instant—no more—with the hate of his eyes he held the circle at bay, then with a movement of consent he waved them back, and with a single jerk drew the shirt over his head and bared his muscular bronze body, scarred and discolored from previous beatings, for the whip. Submissive but dignified he stood there, for all the world like a captive Indian chief of a hundred years ago, contemptuously awaiting the torture of his enemies.
Listlessly the waiting slaves looked on. A regiment of toil, they stood half a dozen deep, with soiled calico trousers reaching half way to the ankles or rolled to the knees, shirts of the same material with many gaping
