“Please to walk this way, sir,” said the officer, leading towards the poop cabin, and preceding me with a degree of assurance that boded ill for his impression of my dignity.
As we entered the cabin, I could hear the two soldiers taking up their places as sentries at the door.
“I wish to see your passport, Señhor,” said he, as he seated himself at the table.
“My passport shall be produced at the fitting time,” said I, “when I arrive on shore. Here I have no need of any.”
“You are wrong, sir; once within that circle of buoys, at the mouth of the port, you are within the limits of the shore authorities; but were it even otherwise, these are not the times for scruples, and I, for one, would not hesitate to arrest you on the information I have received.”
“Information you have received, sir!” exclaimed I, in terror and amazement.
“Yes, sir; I may as well tell you that Malaga is not in the possession of your friends,—you will not find a Carlist garrison ready to give you a salute of honor at your landing. Far less formal, but not less peremptory attentions await you. But produce your papers, for I have no time to lose.”
I saw at a glance that my position was most perilous, and as rapidly resolved to make an effort for safety. “Señhor Capitana,” said I, placing an open pocket-book stuffed with bank-notes before him, “please to accept my passport, and to keep it in your own safe possession. I shall put to sea again, and order the captain to land me at some port in Italy.”
“It is too late,” said he, with a sigh, as he pushed the pocket-book away; “the informations against you are already transmitted to Madrid.”
“Great heavens! and for whom do they take me?” cried I.