Before two hours had elapsed, Lopez returned to the palace. The cabinet members had departed. Portiforo was in his private suite, nervously pacing the floor.
“Well?” he said hoarsely, as his envoy entered. “Has it been done?”
The spy shook his head. His face was white, his manner agitated. His breath came in great gasps, as though he had been running hard.
“I was too late, Señor Presidente,” he answered.
“Too late?”
“When I arrived there, I found El Torro in possession of marines from the Kearsarge. I can’t understand how they managed it—I didn’t wait to gather particulars—but they took the garrison by surprise, and captured the fortress with scarcely a struggle.”
Portiforo sank weakly into a chair. “Incredible!” he gasped. “And the prisoners?”
Lopez made a despairing gesture. “I regret to say that our birds have flown, Señor Presidente. Felix, Hawley, and Ridder are now safely aboard the Yankee warship.”
CHAPTER XLVI.
BESIDE THE GREAT GUN.
In the captain’s cabin of the Kearsarge a white-haired, emaciated man, with tears streaming down his pallid cheeks, was vociferously assuring the commander of the warship of his undying gratitude.