He did so, and beheld eighteen English sailors, armed with muskets, cutlasses, and pistols, file out of the open door of the barracoon and draw up as if on parade.
“What does this mean, monsieur?” demanded Favart, glaring at me murderously.
“Simply that you and your men are my prisoners, monsieur,” answered I. “Nay, do not move, I beg you,”—as the Frenchmen seemed to be preparing for a rush. “The man who moves will be shot dead without further warning. It is useless to dream of resistance, for my men are fully armed, while you are not; therefore, to save unnecessary bloodshed, I beg that you will at once surrender. You see the force of my argument, I am sure, Monsieur Favart?”
“I do,” he answered grimly; “and of course we surrender, since there is nothing between that and being shot down. But, oh, if I had only suspected this when you were aboard the brig—! Well, what do you want us to do?”
“Have the goodness to march your men into the barracoon, monsieur,” said I. “It is but for half an hour or so, until I can make other arrangements for your disposal. I assure you I have not the remotest intention of detaining you there.”
Favart turned and said a word to his men, and the whole party then wheeled and shambled away across the compound and into the open door of the barracoon, which was immediately shut and locked upon them.