us-lined roadsides.

Hitherto, the man's painting sense had lain dormant. Now, despite his
anxiety and the nervous prodding of his heels into the flanks of his
vicious little mount, he felt that he was going toward Duska, and with
the realization came satisfaction. For a time, his eyes ceased to be
those of the man hurled into new surroundings and circumstances, and
became again those of Frederick Marston's first disciple.

They rode before long into the country that borders the town. Rodman's
eyes were fixed with a fascinated gaze on the quiet summit of San
Francisco. He had himself no definite knowledge when the craters might
open, and as yet he had seen no sign of war. The initial note must of
course come drifting with the first wisp of smoke and the first
detonation from the mouths of those guns.

At the outskirts of the town, they turned a sharp angle hidden behind
high monastery walls, and found themselves confronted by a squad of
native soldiery with fixed bayonets.

With an exclamation of surprise, Rodman drew his pony back on its
flanks. For a moment, he leaned in his saddle, scrutinizing the men
who had halted him. There was, of course, no distinction of uniforms,
but he reasoned that no government troops would be guarding that road,
because, as far as the government knew, there was no war. He leaned
over and whispered:

"_Vegas y Libertad._"

The sergeant in command saluted with a grave smile, and drew his men
aside, as the two horsemen rode on.

"Looks like it's getting close," commented Rodman shortly. "We'd
better hurry."

Where the old market-place stands at the junction of the _Calle
Bolivar_ with a lesser street, Rodman again drew down his pony, and
his cheeks paled to the temples. From the center of the city came the
sudden staccato rattle of musketry. The plotter threw his eyes up to
the top of San Francisco, visible above the roofs, but the summit of
San Francisco still slept the sleep of quiet centuries. Then, again,
came the clatter from the center of the town, and again the sharp
rattle of rifle fire ripped the air. There was heavy fighting
somewhere on ahead.

"Good God!" breathed the thin man. "What does it mean?"

The two ponies stood in the narrow street, and the air began to grow
heavier with the noise of volleys, yet the hill was silent.

Rodman rattled his reins on the pony's neck, and rode apathetically
forward. Something had gone amiss! His dreams were crumbling. At the
nex