“The Captain is not there!” exclaimed Bascomb, when this was recognised. “Now, what a plague do they mean by sending off the boat without him? Are they going to beg for more time, I wonder? And, if so, why? For I will never believe but that they know where he is, but are determined to exhaust every artifice and subterfuge in the endeavour to avoid giving him up!”
The others said nothing, for what was the use of hazarding conjecture when they would soon know for certain? So they held their tongues and watched the approach of the boat with gloomy, louring glances. They were disappointed, and in a savage, dangerous mood, ready to plunge at a word into any desperate enterprise.
The boat ranged up alongside, and the oarsmen rested upon their oars as before.
“Hallo! the boat ahoy!” hailed Bascomb. “What does this mean, señor? Why have you not brought off our Captain? Are the people ashore aware that within five minutes the bombardment of the town will begin?”
“Alas! yes, most illustrious señors,” answered the interpreter, “unless I should prove fortunate enough to be successful in the mission that has been entrusted to me—that of pleading with your excellencies for a further extension of time.”
“Upon what grounds, señor?” demanded Bascomb. “I have already granted an extension of six hours—without result, it would appear. Why should I grant another moment?”
“Because, Excellency, it is now believed that a clue to the whereabouts of your Capitan has at last been found, and it is hoped that in the course of another hour or two his freedom may be obtained,” answered the interpreter.
“Ah!” returned Bascomb, with a sigh of relief. “So our Captain has been found at last, has he? And where is he thought to be?”
“In the Inquisition, señor,” answered the interpreter.
“The Inquisition!” interrupted Bascomb. “Odds bodikins! didn’t I say so? And how long has he been there, friend?”