how you the pictures taken
of both of us when we were about to be burned at the stake, and also
one of himself passing through the ordeal of water. Sam, show him the
photos."

Sam took the two pictures from his pocket and handed them to Cleary,
who held them in his hand while Carlos peered over his shoulder.

"You see here," he said, "that we are tied to the stake. You may
recognize our features. You see the expression of pain on our faces.
These men standing around are our elder brothers who initiated us. It
was done by night in a sacred grove where our ancestors have indulged
in these rites for many ages. That wall is part of a ruin of a temple
to the god of war."

Carlos evidently was impressed. He took the dim print, with its fitful
lantern-light effects, and studied it, comparing the faces with those
of his prisoners. Then he showed it to his followers, and they all
spoke together.

"They say," said their chief at last, "that they believe you speak the
truth. But how do we know that the old man was initiated too?"

"He is an old man," said Cleary. "He had a picture like this in his
pocket when he was young. We all carry them with us as long as they
hold together. But they will wear out. You may see that this one is
wearing out already."

"That is true," assented the chief. "But your picture proves against
you as well as for you. You have no feathers in your heads there, and
you are wearing none now," and he proudly straightened up those on his
head.

"In our country we have not many feathers as you have here," answered
Cleary. "The birds do not come often to that land, it is so cold. Only
our greatest men wear feathers. When we reach home and grow old and
wise and valiant, perhaps we shall all have feathers. This old warrior
of ours has feathers at home, but he does not carry them on journeys.
My young friend and I are yet too young. We have a picture of our old
friend here with his feathers."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Sam. "What are you driving at. We'll be worse
off than ever now."

"Just you let me manage this affair," said Cleary. "Give me that photo
of the dress-parade at East Point that you showed me last week."

Sam did as he was told. It represented the dress-parade at sunset, the
companies drawn up in line at parade-rest and the band in full blast
going through its evolutions in the foreground, with a peculiarly
magnificent drum-major in bear-skin hat a