agent of the northern plotters working under this disguise.
Henderson had little time to pursue these disturbing thoughts. The sentry halted them within a few rods of the patio; through the windows Henderson could see people passing back and forth hurriedly.
"Call Don Abrahan," Simon commanded the soldier loftily.
The sentry turned to walk the length of his little beat, jerking hips and shoulders in the pride and contempt of his calling for a fellow who had nothing better to distinguish him than a pair of long mustaches and a captive foreigner tied about with a rope. His military ardor was so great that he kicked up a dust in his turning, marching away as if to dare Simon's courage with the unguarded line behind his back.
There was a movement of activity among the sentries in the patio—four of them Henderson counted, each apparently guarding a door—when an officer appeared issuing a rather lengthy order, no words of which Henderson could hear. Don Abrahan came to a door, his brown velvet garb somber in contrast with the green and gold of the offcer's uniform. For a moment Henderson saw Roberto's face at a window.
Two soldiers entered the room where Don Abrahan stood inside the door, their companions lined up on either side of the entrance. In a moment the two who had entered returned to the
