under the glare of the distant
lights, he saw that their prisoner was neither negro nor Indian. "_Por
Dios_! this fellow is white."

"Red, black, and white!" added another. "We want only a _mestizo_ to
complete the collection."

From these speeches Don Cornelio conjectured that his comrades, Costal
and Clara, had been already captured by the same party who were making
him their prisoner.

He was still ignorant, however, as to whether his captors were royalists
or insurgents; and, before proceeding further, he determined, if
possible, to settle that question.

"What do you want with me?" he inquired, in the hope of obtaining some
clue in the answer.

"Not much," replied the spokesman of the party. "Only to nail your head
in the place of that of Lantejas."

"Lantejas!" exclaimed Don Cornelio, inspired with a fresh hope. "That
is my name. It is I who am the insurgent Lantejas, sent here to Oajaca,
by General Morelos."

The declaration was received with a burst of savage laughter.

"_Demonio_!" cried one of the guerilleros, coming up with the horse of
Don Cornelio, "I have had trouble enough in catching this accursed
brute. It is to be hoped he carries something to repay me for it."

Don Cornelio fancied he knew the tone of this voice, but he had no time
to reflect upon where he had heard it, before its owner again cried out,
"_Alabado sea Dios_! (Blessed be the Lord!) there is my cloak!"

Don Cornelio recognised the man who the day before had taken such a
fancy to his cloak. In a word, the speaker was Gaspacho.

"What a lucky fellow I am to meet you again," continued the brigand;
"that cloak is much too large for you. I told you so yesterday."

"Such as it is, it satisfies me," meekly responded the Captain.

"Oh! nonsense," rejoined Gaspacho, at the same time throwing off his own
tattered scrape, and making a significant gesture to Don Cornelio to
uncloak himself.

The latter hesitated to comply with this rude invitation; but almost on
the instant Gaspacho snatched the garment from his shoulders, and coolly
wrapped it round his own.

"Now, amigo," cried one of Gaspacho's confreres, "surely a man without a
head has no need of a hat? Yours appears as if it would just fit me,"
and saying this, the bandit picked the hat from Don Cornelio's head, at
the same time flinging his own battered sombrero to the ground.

As there was nothing more upon the person of the prisoner to tempt the
cupidity of the