CHAPTER XXIX. THE CARCEL MORENA AT MALAGA
As we sailed proudly into the harbor of Malaga, my attention—at first directed to the striking features of the shore, where lay a city actually embowered amid orange-groves—was soon drawn off by the appearance of a boat, rowed by twelve men, which approached the ship. The national flag of Spain floated from a standard in her stern, and I could mark the glitter of arms and uniforms on board of her.
“The officers of health, I suppose?” said I, carelessly, to the captain.
“No, Señhor, these are soldiers of the garrison.”
“Ah, I understand,” said I, “they are on the alert as to whom they land in these troublous times; for it was the period of the great Carlist struggle.
“Possibly,” was his dry remark, and he moved away.
A hoarse challenge from the boat was answered by something from the ship; and the “accommodation-ladder” was immediately lowered, and an officer ascended to the deck, followed by two of his men, with their side-arms.
Some of the ordinary greetings being interchanged between the captain and the officer, the latter said, “My business here is with the person styling himself the Condé de Cregano. Where is he?”
“That is my name, Señhor,” said I, with a studious admixture of civility and condescension.