A short, thick-set, bullet-headed man, with a neck like a bull, and moustaches that reached up to his ears, stepped forward.
“Your sword, Señor Juarez!”
“I must know to whom I am asked to surrender.”
“To the National flag,” said Webster haughtily.
“Carambo! that is an excellent jest. Is the flag broad enough to cover the ships of every nation? And why should I surrender my sword?” he asked, with a fierce scowl, while his officers drew near threateningly.
Webster stepped quickly to the bulwarks, and called to Captain Pardoe to stand away.
That officer went at once full speed astern, and lay-to a cable length off, with the men at their guns.
“You see?” said Webster.
The Brazilian Captain, with a terrible malediction, broke his sword over his knee.
“A thousand thunders!” he roared, while the black blood swelled in his temples, “to think I should have been beaten by that—that thing—and scarcely a boat’s crew hurt!”