“Did you know anything of this?” demanded Dick of the man who had led them thus far.
“On my soul, no, señor, as I hope for salvation!” fervently answered Pacheco, looking fearlessly into Chichester’s eyes.
“I believe you,” returned Dick, releasing his grasp upon the halter round the Spaniard’s neck. “Go, and save yourself while it is possible. One of your own countrymen will doubtless free your hands; I have no time to do it. Go!”
“My thanks, señor; and may the Blessed Mother and the saints protect you!” And, bending forward, he went at a run, with his hands still bound behind him, toward the soldiers, who, seeing that he was an apparently escaped prisoner, opened out and allowed him to pass through their ranks.
At this moment an officer wearing a full suit of plate armour, and mounted on horseback, advanced, and, lifting the visor of his helmet, demanded, in fairly good English:
“Where is the officer in command of this force?”
“Here,” answered Bascomb, pushing his way to the front.
The Spaniard bowed. Then, indicating with a wave of his hand the troops present, which must have numbered some eight hundred at least, he said with a smile:
“Señor, do you need any further argument than these to convince you of the desirability of surrendering at discretion?”
“A buena querra?” demanded Bascomb, who had picked up a phrase or two of Spanish during his conversations with Marshall.