And it was not absolutely necessary to be
Spanish-born to become in time a Governor General himself.

Time passed. It was very quiet within the belt of magnolias and cypresses
and orange trees and but little noise came from the town, the stray shout
of a reveler, a snatch of a song, and then nothing more.

Braxton Wyatt, still filled with his dreams, arose and stepped down from
the piazza. The happy future promoted in him a certain physical activity,
and he wanted to walk among the trees. He stepped into their shadow,
strolled a rod or so, and then stopped. His acute, forest-bred ear had
brought to him a sound which was not that of the wind nor any echo of a
gay reveler's song.

The renegade stopped. It was very dark among the trees. He could see
neither the house behind, nor the city before him. He did not hear the
sound again, but he was troubled. His pleasant thoughts were disturbed. It
was like waking from a happy dream. He turned to go back to the house and
then he saw a flitting shadow. The wicked heart of Braxton Wyatt stood
still. If he had not known that Henry Ware was safely in the military
prison he would have taken the terrible shadow for him. He knew too well
the great height, the broad shoulders, and the fierce accusing
countenance. Once he had laughed at the Shawnees and Miamis because they
had believed in ghosts. But could it be true?

Braxton Wyatt turned back toward the house, where he might renew his
interrupted and pleasant dream, but the next instant the terrible shadow
turned itself into a reality more terrible.

A powerful form hurled itself upon him, and he was thrown to the ground.
He looked up and met the eyes of Henry Ware, who knelt upon him. No, it
was certainly not a shadow but the most unpleasant of all facts!

Braxton Wyatt was at first paralyzed by terror and the suddenness of the
attack. When he recovered, one hand of Henry pressed heavily upon his
mouth, while the other felt rapidly through his clothing. "Look for any
unusual thickness in his waistcoat; that is probably the place," Oliver
Pollock had said. Henry's hand in a few moments ran upon something folded
between the cloth and lining of the waistcoat. He snatched out his knife,
cut them apart and out fell several folds of fine, thin deerskin. He knew
that the prize had been secured, and he meant to keep it.

Henry thrust the folds of deerskin in his pocket and sprang to his feet.

"Now, you scoundrel!" he exclaimed, "tell