his glad blue eyes. In the window of the patio there was the sound of applauding hands.
There were ropes at the foot of the whipping-post, ready for binding his own limbs, Henderson knew. And there lay coiled the rawhide whip with lash soaked in water to give it weight, that Roberto had intended to swing upon his victim's naked back.
"Pick up that rope," Henderson directed. Roberto, watching him with fear staring in his eyes as he stooped and blindly laid hold of the rope, appeared to believe that his moment to die had come.
Henderson put the Yankee pistol in his belt, leaving his left hand free, cast off the bridle reins from the post. The horse started back a step in retreat, only to stop according to its training when the reins fell to the ground, seeing that no more violence was aimed at its head. Henderson faced Roberto to the whipping-post, fashioned a noose in his deft sailor quickness, his pistol pressing Roberto's back, holding him close against the wood.
A turn, and the noose was around Roberto's neck; a pull, and he was bound to the post, shamed and humiliated in the eyes of his meanest servants, none of whom loved him well enough to come forward and lift a hand in his defense.
With quick turns of the rope around the cross-piece, Henderson tied Roberto's outstretched arms. While he was doing this Don Felipe came
