“Not for all the gold in the Rubio Mountains; you told me you allowed him to keep his pistol.”
“True, as you said, it isn’t best to tempt him too far; I will take his food to him.”
“Permit me to do so,” interposed Captain Guzman, who thereupon performed the pleasing task. Ortega was first invited to come to the cabin to join them, but he replied that his duties required him to remain in the pilot house. The delicate feeling that prompted his refusal was understood by the brother and sister.
Just as the meal was finished, all were startled by the hoarse, tremulous whistle overhead. Two long blasts sounded, and the clink of the little brass lever was heard as it dropped back to its resting place against the sounding tube.
“What does that mean?” asked Major Starland, who the next moment bounded to his feet and hurried to the Captain, with Guzman at his heels.
“Captain, what is the cause of that signal; have you so soon forgotten your neutrality?”
“It is a salutation to the steamer just coming round the bend. Listen!”
A sepulchral tremolo rumbled across the water, and the topmast of a craft was discerned gliding along over the stunted tops of the timber growing on the projecting point of land which for the moment shut the hull from view. From the highest point fluttered the most beautiful flag ever bathed in the sunlight of heaven. It seemed to be bounding forward as if borne at the head of a charging regiment.
“By heavens!” exclaimed the happy American, to whom the answering signal was one of the most familiar sounds on earth; “that’s the Warrenia, my own yacht!”