posts. At the far side
a rude log stable seemed to open into it. The place might have been
intended as a breaking ground for horses but Paul did not have time to
think.

Facing him just outside the fence and sitting on a hastily constructed
wooden seat was Francisco Alvarez, still in his finest uniform. Beside him
was Braxton Wyatt, also in a Spanish uniform, and all about them on either
side, wherever the fence was made of parallel bars and open to see,
clustered the mob, soldiers, laborers, servants, white faces, black faces,
yellow faces, brown faces, straight hair, curly hair, and kinky hair,
French, Spaniards, Portuguese, Indians, negroes, and many mixtures, every
one eager and tense, and every eye bent upon Paul who stood, back to the
gate, holding the sword in his hand, but unconscious that he held it.

What was this mummery? Why was he a spectacle for that mob? All the blood
rushed to Paul's head and the little pulses in his temples began to beat
like hammers. He looked at Alvarez, but the Spaniard had turned his face
into a stony mask, and he could read no meaning there. Then he looked at
Braxton Wyatt, and the renegade's countenance plainly expressed malignity
and triumph.

The great shout that greeted the entrance of Paul died away to a silence
so heavy that it seemed ominous. Then Francisco Alvarez looked toward the
wooden building, at the far side of the ring, and raised his hand. A gate
there was thrown open, and a man, sword in hand, strolled lazily out.
Again a tremendous shout arose, and the mob pressed closer to the bars,
those in front sitting on the grass and those behind standing up in order
that they might look over them.

Francisco Alvarez raised his hand a second time, and instantly there was
silence once more. He was like a feudal lord dispensing justice in the
open air before all his retainers.

"Kaintock," he called in a loud voice, "since you are so expert with the
sword, we give you another chance to display your skill. Defend yourself
from this champion."

Again the approving shout of the mob arose, and Paul looked across the
ring, where the swordsman had come forth.

The man was of great size, and his whole appearance reminded Paul of the
ancient gladiators of whom he had read. He seemed to be a West Indian of
Spanish descent, very dark and with immense shoulders. He wore a red
shirt, which added to his strange and savage appearance. He carried in his
hand a long sword, much longe