Pancho's
apprehensions had fattened upon themselves, and he had been living
of late in a nightmare of terror.
But it seemed to him that he had barely closed his eyes when he
was awakened by a tremendous vibration and found himself in the
center of the floor, undecided whether he had been hurled from his
bed or whether he had leaped thither. Still in a daze, he heard a
shout from the direction of Cobo's room, then a din of other
voices, followed by a rush of feet; the next instant his door was
flung back and he saw, by the light of high-held torches, Esteban
Varona and a ragged rabble of black men. Cueto knew that he faced
death. He uttered a shrill scream of terror, and, seizing the
revolver which was always close at his hand, he fired blindly.
Then his foes were upon him. What happened thereafter took but an
instant. He dodged a blow from Esteban's clubbed rifle only to
behold the flash of a machete. Crying out again, he tried to guard
himself from the descending blade, but too late; the sound of his
hoarse terror died in his throat, half born.
"Quick! Soak the bed with oil and fire it," Esteban directed; then
he ran out into the hall to investigate that other shouting. He
found the chamber whence it issued and tried to smash the door;
but at the second blow he heard a gun-shot from within and the
wood splintered outward almost into his face.
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