ow what. I stayed in there until
your army went away. Before that I had been for two or three days on top
of the pyramid, where a little water palm gave up its life to save me."

Almonte regarded him with wonder.

"I am not superstitious myself--that is, not unnecessarily so," he said,
"but yours must be a lucky star. After all that, you should have
escaped, and your present capture must be a mere delay. You will slip
from us again."

"I shall certainly try," said Ned hopefully.

"It is bound to come true," said Almonte. "All the omens point that
way."

Ned smiled. Almonte, young, brilliant and generous, had made him almost
feel as if he were a guest and not a prisoner. He did not discern in him
that underlying strain of Spanish cruelty, which passion might bring to
the surface at any moment. It might be due to his youth, or it might be
due to his American education.

"We march in an hour," said Almonte. "We are to rejoin General Cos on
the Vera Cruz road, but that will not occur for two or three days.
Meanwhile, as the way is rough and you are pretty weak, you can ride on
a burro. Sorry I can't get you a horse, but our lancers have none to
spare. Still, you'll find a burro surer of foot and more comfortable
over the basalt and lava."

Ned thanked him for his courtesy. He liked this cheerful Mexican better
than ever. In another hour they started, turning into the Vera Cruz
road, and following often the path by which great Cortez had come. Ned's
burro, little but made of steel, picked the way with unerring foot and
never stumbled once. He rode in the midst of the lancers, who were full
that day of the Latin joy that came with the sun and the great panorama
of the Mexican uplands. Now and then they sang songs of the South,
sometimes Spanish and sometimes Indian, Aztec, or perhaps even Toltec.
Ned felt the influence. Once or twice he joined in the air without
knowing the words, and he would have been happy had it not been for his
thoughts of the Texans.

The courtesy and kindliness of Almonte must not blind him to the fact
that he was the bearer of a message to his own people. That message
could not be more important because its outcome was life and death, and
he watched all the time for a chance to escape. None occurred. The
lancers were always about him, and even if there were an opening his
burro, sure of foot though he might be, could not escape their strong
horses. So he bided his time, for the present, and