Juan, the maroon, stood on no ceremony, but promptly transfixed him, and he fell like a log across the doorway. His comrades immediately behind recoiled in panic; but were pushed forward by the men in the rear, who had not seen what had happened.
"Stand, you villains!" called Turnpenny, from the opposite doorway. "I will shoot any man of you that lifts a finger."
"Shut the door!" cried one of the men behind.
But this was impossible; the door opened outwards, and none could reach it without stepping over the body of the man whom the maroon had killed. They well knew that the first who ventured across the threshold would meet with the same fate, and every man of them shrank from the risk. Dim as the light was, Turnpenny recognized the features of men under whose whips he had many times writhed.
"Fling down your sword, Hernando," he cried to the foremost of them. The man hesitated. "Down with it, or you are a dead man," roared the seaman, and there was an accent in his voice that boded ill for the Spaniard if he should delay. His sword fell with a clatter on the stone floor.
"Now yours, Fernan, and yours, Manuel," and as these obeyed the curt command the rest waited no bidding, but cast their weapons from them and cried for quarter.
"Out with you, into the guard-room," shouted Turnpenny. "Have a care, Juan; let none escape."
The big maroon stood in the passage with his back towards the outer gate, and the sight of his ferocious look and his formidable sword was enough. The Spaniards tumbled over each other like a flock of sheep as they surged into the room, where Dennis stood ready to cut down any who attempted resistance.
"Ah, 'tis you, José," cried Turnpenny, following the last into the room. "Where are your keys?"
The warder edged away, seeking to hide behind his comrades. At a sign from Turnpenny the maroon sprang after him and hauled him back.