“But who is he, and what is he?” snarled the other. “He does not look like a Spaniard.”
“He is not a Spaniard,” answered Carlos. “Pepe, one of the Bella Vista ‘boys’ who joined us last night, told me that there was a young Englishman in the house who had been found by old Tomasso, Don Luis’ fisherman, floating about on a piece of wreckage, nearly dead, and had been brought ashore by him and, at Don Luis’ orders, taken up to the house and nursed back to health by Mama Elisa; and without doubt this is he.”
“Is this so?” demanded the quintessence of ugliness, turning his gaze upon me.
“It is,” answered I. “And perhaps it may prevent misunderstanding and attachment of blame to the wrong people if I explain that it is I who am responsible for the defence of Bella Vista and the losses that you have sustained. It was I who supervised the erection of the barricades, and who also arranged the plan upon which we fought.”
“A–h!” he breathed, and the note of diabolical malignity with which he contrived to imbue that single word sent a shudder of fear through me, so intense was it. “Then, perhaps,” he continued, “you may be able to tell us whose hand it was who slew Petion, our late leader?”
“As well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,” thought I, and answered at once “Yes. As a matter of fact I am responsible for that, too; and I am glad of it. It was my finger that pulled the trigger that sent the bullet through his heart; and my only regret is that you did not stay long enough to enable me to send a few more of you after him.”
Carlos, my captor, actually released my arm and stepped a pace away, the better to gaze upon me, so astounded was he at the unimaginable rashness of my speech. And, to speak truth, I was astounded at myself; I knew perfectly well that I was in all probability only adding fuel to the flame which would ultimately consume me, yet some perverse influence altogether beyond my control seemed to urge me to speak as I did, whether I would or no. And, strangest circumstance of all, my words, instead of evoking from my questioner the white-hot explosion of wrath that I fully expected, seemed to gratify the man rather than otherwise, for he grinned appreciation as he gazed into my flashing eyes. Then a thought seemed to suddenly strike him.
“You were picked up floating upon a piece of wreckage, you say?” he remarked. “Now, I wonder whether, by any chance, that piece of wreckage happened to belong to the British man-o’-war schooner that engaged a pirate schooner a few miles in the offing, about a month or two ago?”
“It did,” I answered. “It belonged to His Britannic Majesty’s schooner Wasp, which foundered in the gale that sprang up immediately after the engagement; and I, her commander, was, so far as I know, the only person saved.”
“You her commander!” he reiterated incredulously. “Why, you are only a boy!”