Beside him was Braxton Wyatt, also in a Spanish uniform, and all about them on either side, wherever the fence was made of parallel bars and open to see, clustered the mob, soldiers, laborers, servants, white faces, black faces, yellow faces, brown faces, straight hair, curly hair, and kinky hair, French, Spaniards, Portuguese, Indians, negroes, and many mixtures, every one eager and tense, and every eye bent upon Paul who stood, back to the gate, holding the sword in his hand, but unconscious that he held it.
What was this mummery?
Why was he a spectacle for that mob?
All the blood rushed to Paul's head and the little pulses in his temples began to beat like hammers.

He looked at Alvarez, but the Spaniard had turned his face into a stony mask, and he could read no meaning there.

Then he looked at Braxton Wyatt, and the renegade's countenance plainly expressed malignity and triumph.
The great shout that greeted the entrance of Paul died away to a silence so heavy that it seemed ominous.

Then Francisco Alvarez looked toward the wooden building, at the far side of the ring, and raised his hand.

A gate there was thrown open, and a man, sword in hand, strolled lazily out.
Again a tremendous shout arose, and the mob pressed closer to the bars, those in front sitting on the grass and those behind standing up in order that they might look over them.
Francisco Alvarez raised his hand a second time, and instantly there was silence once more.