tion; an immense weakness dissolved his bones; he trembled.
"Your gun," snarled the Sergeant, shaking him ragefully.
But Pedro, limp, eyes closed, waited for a little strength.
"Your gun," thundered the Sergeant.
And Pedro opened his eyes with a long sigh, like a very sleepy child. "I have no gun, caybigan," he said, very gently, very wearily.
They began again. The water slid down in silver prettiness, splashed upon the face in diamond drops; and Pedro drowned. And each time when they stopped, and he had regained strength, he smiled gently at his caybigan and said, "I have no gun, caybigan."
After a while fury rose like a red foam into the brains of these men, mad with ceaseless, ineffectual carnage, with bitter, unavailing toil, with the sense of their impotence in this eternal war against a vacuum. They threw themselves upon that limp, resistless body, shell of the impalpable soul unconquered within. They beat and kicked and choked.
But Pedro, very weak, very tired, very broken, still smiled gently and said, "I have no gun, caybigan."
Then from this orgy of violence Blount felt himself slowly emerge, white of face, cold in sweat, stagger-
