Half a dozen transports and a few of the smaller war-ships lay in the little harbor.

Steam-launches towing strings of boats crowded with troops were plying between the ships and the one small pier that offered a landing-place.

The Spaniards had retreated, burning houses and bridges behind them, and already dark masses of American troops were forming on the narrow strip of level land separating the hills from the sea.

These were his own people, and Ridge longed to rush forward and join them, but was faced by two obstacles.

One was a strong Spanish force concealed in a ravine between him and the Americans as though to dispute their advance at that point, and the other was the memory that he had promised to await at this place the coming of Navarro, whom he expected to see with each minute.
Suddenly, as he impatiently wondered what he ought to do, there came a quick rush of feet, and the young Spaniard, breathless with haste, stood beside him.
"Amigo," he gasped, "you are in great danger.