It was evening;
the barracks were still, and the gloom of the sick room was, if
possible, rendered greater by the darkness that was seen from the
uncurtained window. At a sign from his patient the surgeon left him
alone with the new comer, who threw himself upon a camp-stool, and
folding his arms, awaited the general's pleasure. In the meantime,
if the reader will look closely upon the hard lineaments of his
face, the heavy eyebrow, the profusion of beard, and the
cold-blooded and heartless expression of features, he will recognize
the game man whom he has once before met with General Harero, and
who gave him the keys by which he succeeded in making a secret
entrance to Lorenzo Bezan's cell in the prison before the time
appointed for his execution. It was the jailor of the military
prison.
"Lieutenant," said the general, "I have sent for you to perform a
somewhat delicate job for me."
"What is it, general?"
"I will tell you presently; be not in such haste," said the sick
man.
"I am at your service."
"Have I not always paid you well when employed by me, lieutenant?"
"Nobly, general, only too liberally."
"Would you like to serve me again in a still more profitable job?"
"Nothing could be more agreeable.
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