Perez left the room. As soon as he had gone, Jack, relying on the commissary being engrossed with the bottle, opened the door an inch, and beckoned the old Spaniard in.
"Now, Señor Don What's-your-name," said the commissary, "we Frenchmen will drink a bumper to the fair Spaniard, the black-eyed beauty. Messieurs, aux beaux yeux de la belle Ju—an—i—"
He had lifted his brimming glass half-way to his lips, and turned with a fat smile towards Miguel, when he paused, his hand stayed in mid-air, and he broke off in the middle of Juanita's name. Advancing towards him from behind the screen he saw a young Spaniard, with a drawn sword in his right hand, and in his left a pistol, cocked and pointed.
"You will excuse me, messieurs," said Jack quietly, "intruding upon you thus unceremoniously—pray keep your seats," he added, as the lieutenant pushed back his chair, and the fuddled captain half rose. "In fact, I shall take it so ill if you move but a hair's breadth that I cannot answer for my nerves!"
For all its banter, Jack's tone had in it so much of deadly earnestness that the officers sank limply back into their seats, the instinctive movement towards sword and pistol arrested as if by a sudden palsy. Miguel had remained on his chair without moving a muscle. With him the French were four to one, for as a combatant the old man did not count; but each of the four knew that the first among them to take up the gage would fall instantly to Jack's pistol, and the knowledge dulled the edge of their courage.
"Hombre," continued Jack, addressing the old gardener, "bolt the door."
The man was trembling in every limb, but hastened to obey the order.
"That is right. Now, feel in my left-hand pocket. You will find a whistle. You have it? Then open yonder window and blow three times."
The man went to the window behind the commissary, opened one of its leaves, and blew three shrill blasts. While this was going on, the four sat helplessly in the same position in which Jack had surprised them. The lieutenant's pink cheeks had paled; the commissary's rubicund features had become like mottled soap; the captain was red with sottish indignation; Miguel had never moved. Jack could only see his back.
"With your permission, messieurs," Jack went on, "this good man will make a little collection. Hombre, relieve that gentleman at the head of the table of his sword and pistol. No, no; not this side of him. You may get hurt if you come between us, and we cannot spare a good Spaniard—can we, Don Miguel? Go round him. That's right. Now bring the weapons and put them on the floor behind me. So. Now, go round in the same way and get the next gentleman's arms."