But the low, thick door was built of some hard, native wood: it
was wet and tough and slippery. O'Reilly's blows made no
impression upon it, nor upon the heavy hasps and staples with
which it was secured in place. The latter were deeply rusted, to
be sure, but they withstood his efforts, and he was finally forced
to rest, baffled, enraged, half hysterical from weakness and
fatigue.
Daylight was at hand once more, but he refused to give up, and
worked on stubbornly, furiously, until Rosa, in an agony, besought
him to desist.
Johnnie again collapsed on the grass and lay panting while the
other two replaced the planks.
"Another hour and I'd have been into it," he declared, huskily.
"You will skill yourself," Jacket told him.
Rosa bent over him with shining eyes and parted lips. "Yes," said
she. "Be patient. We will come back, O'Reilly, and to-night we
shall be rich."
Colonel Cobo lit a black cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and
exhaled two fierce jets of smoke through his nostrils. For a full
moment he scowled forbiddingly at the sergeant who had asked to
see him.
"What's this you are telling me?" he inquired, finally.
The sergeant, a mean-faced, low-browed man, stirred uneasily.
"It is God's truth. There are spirits on La Cumbre, and I wish to
see the priest about it."
"Spirits? What kind of spirits?"
The fellow shrugged.
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