“Young woman!—Holy St. Francis. Yes, now I recollect. Why the fact is—”
“Pedro!” called a voice from above; the man stopped, put his fingers to his lips, went out, and locked the door.
“God of Heaven! give me patience,” cried Philip; “but this is too trying.”
“He will be down here again to-morrow morning,” observed Krantz.
“Yes! to-morrow morning but what an endless time will suspense make of the intervening hours.”
“I feel for you,” replied Krantz; “but what can be done? The hours must pass, though suspense draws them out into interminable years; but I hear footsteps.”
Again the door was unlocked, and the first soldier made his appearance. “Follow me—the Commandant would speak with you.”
This unexpected summons was cheerfully complied with by Philip and his companion. They walked up the narrow stone steps, and at last found themselves in a small room in presence of the Commandant, with whom our readers have been already made acquainted. He was lolling on a small sofa, his long sword lay on the table before him, and two young native women were fanning him, one at his head, and the other at his feet.
“Where did you get those dresses?” was the first interrogatory.
“The natives, when they brought us prisoners from the island on which we had saved ourselves, took away our clothes, and gave us these as a present from their king.”