Besides, friend Jaime, ten
ounces are not to be earned by saying paternosters, or without risk."

"Risk enough already," grumbled the gipsy. "At this hour I ought to be
five leagues away, and if he, on whose service I was bound, finds out
that I have tarried, no tree in the sierra will be too high to hang me
on."

"You must hope that he will not find it out," said Paco, coolly.

"Did you give the prisoner a hint of our plan?" enquired the gitano.

"I was unable. I visit him but once a-day, to take him his rations, and
that at noon. Since I arranged this plan, I endeavoured to get
admittance to him, but was repulsed by the sentry. To have insisted
would have excited suspicion. He knows, however, that he is to be shot
to-morrow, and is not likely to be asleep."

Just then the deep sonorous bell of the neighbouring church-clock struck
the hour. The two men listened, and counted ten strokes.

"Is it time?" said the gipsy, who had completed the noose upon the
second rope.

"Not yet," replied Paco; "let another hour strike. Till then, not
another word."

The muleteer extinguished the light and seated himself down upon the
broken chair; the gipsy stretched himself upon the bed, and all was
silent and dark in the garret. Gradually, the slight murmuring sounds
which still issued from various houses of the little village became
hushed, as the inmates betook themselves to rest; and Paco, who waited
with anxious impatience till the moment for action should arrive, heard
nothing but the heavy breathing of the esquilador, who had sunk into a
restless slumber. Half-past ten was tolled; the challenging of the
sentries was heard as they were visited by the rounds; and then soon
afterwards came the long-drawn admonition of "_Sentinela alerta!_" from
the main guard, replied to in sharp quick tones by the "_Aleria esta_"
of the sentries. At length eleven struck, and when the reverberation of
the last stroke had died away, Paco rose from his chair, and shook his
companion from his sleep.

"It is time," said he.

The gipsy started up.

"The money?" was his first question.

Paco placed a small bag in the esquilador's hand, which closed eagerly
upon it.

"I promised you ten ounces," said the muleteer, "and you have them
there. When you bring me a line in the handwriting of the prisoner,
dated from a Christino town, you shall receive a like sum. But beware of
playing false, gitano. Others, more powerful than myself, are concern