r a bridge of timbers taken from the temple had been made
over the breach in the roadway that wound about its side.

At the gates the Spaniards were waiting to receive us. Some of them
cursed us, some mocked, but those of the nobler sort said nothing, for
they pitied our plight and respected us for the courage we had shown
in the last struggle. Their Indian allies were there also, and these
grinned like unfed pumas, snarling and whimpering for our lives, till
their masters kicked them to silence. The last act of the fall of
Anahuac was as the first had been, dog still ate dog, leaving the goodly
spoil to the lion who watched.

At the gates we were sorted out; the men of small condition, together
with the children, were taken from the ruined city by an escort and
turned loose upon the mountains, while those of note were brought to the
Spanish camp, to be questioned there before they were set free. I, with
my wife and son, was led to the palace, our old home, there to learn the
will of the Captain Diaz.

It is but a little way to go, and yet there was something to be seen
in the path. For as we walked I looked up, and before me, standing
with folded arms and apart from all men, was de Garcia. I had scarcely
thought of him for some days, so full had my mind been of other matters,
but at the sight of his evil face I remembered that while this man
lived, sorrow and danger must be my bedfellows.

He watched us pass, taking note of all, then he called to me who walked
last:

'Farewell, Cousin Wingfield. You have lived through this bout also and
won a free pardon, you, your woman and your brat together. If the old
war-horse who is set over us as a captain had listened to me you should
have been burned at the stake, every one of you, but so it is. Farewell
for a while, friend. I am away to Mexico to report these matters to the
viceroy, who may have a word to say.'

I made no answer, but asked of our conductor, that same Spaniard whom I
had saved from the sacrifice, what the senor meant by his words.

'This, Teule; that there has been a quarrel between our comrade Sarceda
and our captain. The former would have granted you no terms, or failing
this would have decoyed you from your stronghold with false promises,
and then have put you to the sword as infidels with whom no oath is
binding. But the captain would not have it so, for he said that faith
must be kept even with the heathen, and we whom you had saved cried
shame on